The Reasons Behind His Names
by wcgreen
Summary: The rationale and the need for the many personas of "Harold Finch" are found long ago and far away from present-day New York City.
1. Bellinger and Burdette

Leadville Township  
>March, 1965<p>

When Claire Bellinger first saw the boy, he was sitting on the porch of a ramshackle rental house at the edge of town. No suitcase, no bundle of belongings, not even a teddy bear or favorite book, just a scrawny little kid whose only local kin were a mother and grandmother who had died four days before in a car crash. Her newest case: Danny Cummings, age six. His sweater, shirt and slacks, although clean, were too large for his slight frame and his light brown hair was in sad need of a barber. The boy said nothing in response to her greeting, and his narrow blue eyes failed to follow her when she crossed the yard to his uncle, a wheat farmer from the northern part of the state.

"None of us can take him in," the man said, his stiff manner telling her that no one had even considered that option. "Most of us think he's bit tetched in the head. Probably takes after his pa."

"Do you know the father's name?" Miss Bellinger asked him.

The uncle shook his head. "Nope. Didn't stick around long enough for introductions. You gonna take the boy?"

That was her job as a social worker: to take the child. First order of business was the paperwork relinquishing him to the state. Next was a physical exam at the county clinic. After that, she would place him in a temporary foster home or at the county's group facility. Once he had a bed to sleep in, other people would evaluate him to see if he really did need more help than his relatives could provide or if neglect and lack of stimulation had temporarily stunted his development.

Miss Bellinger had the uncle sign the necessary papers then she drove the boy to Fredericksburg, where her office and the county clinic were located. During the thirty-minute ride, the boy sat still and stared straight ahead, taking no note of the scenery nor the woman next to him. Her attempts at conversation failed thanks to the boy's one-word answers. He was "fine;" the funeral had been "okay" as was first grade at Leadville Elementary. When asked if he knew his letters and numbers, the boy said "Yes," but did not elaborate. Finally, the social worker gave up and they finished the trip to the clinic in silence.

She waited outside the single examination room while the county nurse performed the boy's physical. Through the open door, she heard him answer the nurse's questions with flat monosyllables, and she worried that maybe the boy truly was slow. If so, finding him a long-term foster placement, let alone someone to adopt him, would be almost impossible.

Her worries vanished when the nurse poked her head through the doorway.

"The boy's sound as a dollar," was her prognosis. "His hearing's fine, but he's terribly near-sighted—can only read the top line on the eye chart. Get him some glasses and he'll be as right as rain."

Back in her car, the boy resumed his silent staring, but now the social worker knew the reason for his passivity—why watch the scenery when it's nothing but a blur? She left him to his thoughts while she drove across town to the Williamsons, a couple paid by the state to keep children for short-term and emergency placements.

"Oh, we'll fit him in somewhere," Mrs. Williamson told her, "and the Ladies' Guild just dropped off a bag of clothing. I'm sure we can find him something to wear."

Miss Bellinger's last glimpse of the boy that day was of him following Mrs. Williamson into her house. He didn't turn back to wave nor did he watch her drive away.

Two days later, the social worker returned to take the boy to the optometrist. His hair had been buzzed short by an amateur with electric clippers, but his winter coat, red plaid shirt and dungarees were clean and the proper size. He responded politely when she asked about the Williamsons and the other children at their house then he focused his attention on the dashboard and remained quiet until he was seated in Doctor Burdette's examining room, where he gave the strange metal equipment a nervous glance.

"It's an optical refractor," the optometrist explained in response to the boy's fear. "I'll use it to check your eyes after you read my chart. How about giving it a try?"

The boy again failed to recognize any letter except the large E at its top. Dr. Burdette patted him on the shoulder to console him.

"Don't worry about it. Now, look straight ahead for me while I shine a light in your eyes."

The boy sat stock-still while the doctor examined each of his eyes.

"No cataracts," he murmured, "no retinal tears, no problems that I can see. Now, let's try this..."

He made some adjustments to the refractory, each click of the mechanism causing the boy to flinch, then he swung it around until it blocked Miss Bellinger's view of the boy's face.

"Look through the lenses and read me the smallest line that you can make out," the optometrist ordered.

Seconds passed, but the only sound was a quick inhalation as the boy caught his breath.

"Which lines can you read?" Dr. Burdette prompted.

The answer came in an awe-struck whisper.

"All of them."

Dr. Burdette chuckled at his surprise.

"I'm a good guesser," he said. "Now, let's make sure we've got you the right lenses."

It took five minutes and a series of "Is that first one clearer or is this one?"questions to fine-tune the optometrist's selection. When he went to move the refractor away from the boy's face, the boy reached up as though to pull it back.

"Sorry," Dr. Burdette told him, "those lenses are mine. You'll have your own glasses next week."

The boy's hand returned to his lap as his shoulders slumped. The optometrist ignored his disappointment as he turned to Miss Bellinger.

"Basic boy's frames, right?"

She nodded to confirm the state's unwillingness to spend a penny more than was necessary—not that the frugality mattered to the boy when he and Miss Bellinger returned one week later. The moment his new glasses were placed on his face, he began to examine everything in the office, drinking in the details and intricacies of the equipment, tools, and charts. Pointing to each one in turn, he asked what it did and where it came from and how it was made until the doctor threw up his hands and pleaded for a chance to see his next patient.

The drive back to his foster home was spent with the boy pressed against the passenger window. Miss Bellinger watched him as he observed the rhythmic curves of the telephone and electrical wires along the road. She saw him follow the swoop of a crow as it flew from treetop to ground, and she noted how he tracked the tree branches as they narrowed from trunk to twig to bud. She smiled as he began to read the license numbers of the cars on the road and the names on the mail boxes. He found the button to the glove box and, seeing the owner's manual for her car, read aloud the table of contents for it, working out the pronunciation of the unfamiliar words so quickly that the social worker marveled that she had once thought the boy slow.

A pair of thick lenses set in cheap plastic frames. It was a miracle the boy never forgot.


	2. Norman

Author's Notes:

Norman is one of the first names Finch uses.

Twilight Zone episode: "It's A Good Life" with Billy Mumy as Anthony, the boy everyone feared.

JD: Juvenile Delinquent

Definitely AU. Although I'll make adjustments as new info is available, I'll be sincerely surprised if I'm even close to canon once all is revealed.

Fredericks County Social Welfare Office  
>July 1966<p>

Miss Bellinger had told him this was just a meeting and nothing to worry about, but Danny Cummings knew better. Sixteen months in the system had taught him to fear change, and a trip to her office was not only unusual; it was unprecedented.

He kept his attention focused on the passing scenery, ignoring the comic book he had brought with him, as he tried to forget one of the many things he had learned in foster care: if you're moved around too much, it means nobody wants you. That's when they ship you off to the Ranch.

The name alone had been enough to scare Danny. It spoke of horses and cows and sleeping out under the stars, roughing it like the cowboys did without books or lights to read by. Later, when he learned the Ranch was more group home than cattle drive, it still sent shivers through him. As long as he was a foster kid, he still had a chance at a permanent home. Kids considered unadoptable went to the Ranch, staying there until they turned eighteen and were kicked out to be adults.

Miss Bellinger parked in front of the county's main offices just as Danny was wondering how many moves equaled "too much." He was in his twelfth foster home; would the next move put him over the top? He wanted to ask, but the fear the question would jinx things kept his mouth shut as he followed his social worker into the building and up the stairs to the third floor.

Once inside the Social Services' reception area, Danny greeted Mr. Norman Jeffries, the agency's director, then he followed the suggestion that he take a seat in a battered wooden chair across from the secretary and under an open window. There, he opened his comic book while Miss Bellinger and her boss went into the inner office and closed the door behind them.

Danny leaned back against the wall in the hope of overhearing the meeting though the open window, but all he could hear the _whirr _of the oscillating fan by the secretary's desk and the shuffle of paper as she worked. With nothing else to occupy him, he opened his comic and began to read.

"You want a soda pop?"

The question from the secretary startled him. Danny blinked at her for a moment before shaking his head.

"What are you reading?"

Danny held up his comic book.

"Oh, Batman," she said with that artificially cheerful tone most adults picked when talking to him. "My nephew reads that one."

He faked a smile. Under his pillow back home was Winston Churchill's _My Early Life,_ a fascinating book that he had sneaked out of the public library after the librarian told him it was too advanced for a second-grader. The week before, Mrs. Wamboldt, his current foster mother, had confiscated _The Grapes of Wrath,_ telling him it was a shameful and filthy book unfit for a boy twice his age. Adults like them proved it was safer to read age-appropriate material in public.

The secretary smiled at him again then she stood up.

"I have to run downstairs for a while," she announced. "Will you okay until I get back?"

He considered replying that, while she was gone, he would disassemble her typewriter and use its parts to create a killer robot, but Danny chose instead to smile and nod. Grownups responded better to polite children

"You sure about the soda pop? It's no trouble."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure."

"Okay, then. I'll be going. You enjoy your comic book."

The second she was out of sight, Danny dropped the comic to the floor then he rushed across the room to turn off the fan. He returned to the chair and knelt on its seat, his elbows braced against the window sill and his head resting on the jamb. He ignored the view, a windowless wall across an empty alley, and concentrated on listening.

Being a ward of the state had taught Danny to keep his eyes and ears open. Knowledge was the only power available to a scrawny, near-sighted foster kid. Danny lurked around corners and open doors at school to listen in on teacher and student conversations. He searched the drawers, closets, and cupboards at his foster homes. At night, when the grown-ups gathered on the porch or in the backyard, he stayed nearby, hiding his eavesdropping behind a comic or a school book.

Thanks to his spying, he knew where his foster brothers stashed their spending money, who squirreled away food and cigarettes, and who hid issues of Playboy or Young Physique under their mattresses. He had learned other secrets, too, like how Mr. Shipford, his sixth foster father, hid pints of rye behind bushes around his neighborhood so he could sneak a drink during his after-dinner walks.

But it wasn't enough merely to know something. The information had to solve his problems. Danny winced at the memory of how wrong some of his tries had gone, but a question from Mr. Jeffries drove that thought from his mind.

"No adoptive placements for Danny?"

"No. The boy didn't match with the few couples who wanted a older child."

Danny groaned at Miss Bellinger's blunt statement. Not only did most couples want infants, but the agency also matched children with prospective parents by their appearance: blond, blue-eyed parents got the fair-haired kids, those with southern European ancestry got the dark-haired ones, and the few Negro families who came to the agency got their pick of the black children. This left the "less than ideal" children stuck in an insecure limbo, waiting for adults who not only wanted to adopt, but who also looked like them. Danny's personal limbo had been summed up during his second stay at the Williamsons' home by Freddie, the oldest Williamson boy: "If a pair of blind mice ever figure out how to fill out the application, Ratface here is a shoe-in for a family."

Danny's response had been to slide Freddie's stash of Playboys a foot closer to the edge of his mattress, which allowed his mother to feel them when she changed his bed linens next laundry day. When Freddie later described his meeting with his father's belt, Danny hid his glee while agreeing with the unfairness of the punishment.

That bit of vengeance still felt good, but the next comment from the director drained Danny's pleasure from the memory.

"Sixteen months and twelve placements? I hate comparing children to nick-knacks, but a child gets shopworn after too many moves."

Danny's throat went dry at the director's choice of phrase. Shopworn was like a comic book taken from the rack and read by everyone in town, its pages limp, its cover creased and torn. Nobody bought the shopworn issues. They were sent back to the publisher for pulping, the magazine equivalent of the Ranch.

"Why so many?" the director next asked.

"Well," Miss Bellinger replied, "his first two were temporary placements with our emergency families..."

Danny's first month in the foster system, spent with the Williamsons then the Schwabs, was a blur, not only due to his lack of eyeglasses, but also from grief and shock. All he wanted was to go home, to be back with his mom and grandma, to lay in his cot in the corner of their front room and hear the two women talking in the kitchen as they washed up after supper, the radio set to a country station out of Des Moines, and the scent of Kools signaling that his mother had sat down for a smoke when the dishes were finished. Both Mrs. Williamson and Mrs. Schwab had tried to be kind to him, but Danny wanted familiar, loving hugs and voices; the comfort of strangers only made his loss hurt that much worse.

"When a place became available at the Mertons at the end of April, I moved him there. Unfortunately, Mr. Merton's mother suffered a stroke in July and she had to move in with them. Since she needed Danny's room..."

Danny knew his social worker had explained fostering to him, how families took in children and cared for them in an arrangement with the state agency. He knew the parents were paid for their efforts and that only adoption guaranteed a permanent home, but his need for someone to fill the gaping hole in his life made him see the Mertons as his new family. After all, they acted like they wanted him as their son. They bought him birthday presents when he turned seven, took him with them on Sunday outings and picnics and, in the evenings, Mr. Merton played catch with him in the backyard—not that Danny was very good at fielding a baseball, but Mr. Merton seemed to like the game and Danny was willing to do anything to make the Mertons happy. It all was going so well—until the phone call from the doctor came. Then things got tense and quiet and the games of catch stopped because Mr. Merton was spending all his spare time with his mother at the hospital.

If he had really been their son, and not some state-paid foster kid, the Mertons would have kept him. They have kept him even if every member of the Merton family moved in with them. Since he was nothing but a foster kid, they called his social worker and told Danny he had to go. First thing Danny did when he arrived back at the Schwab's house was throw his mitt in the barrel in the back yard, knowing it would be burnt to a crisp the next time Mr. Schwab burned the household trash. He hid his disappointment from the other foster kids and crossed his fingers to hope for a real home.

Miss Bellinger continued her recitation of his history.

"Danny was back at the Schwabs for three weeks before a place opened up at the Edisons..."

They were a couple in their late fifties, Mr. Edison house-bound with miner's lung, Mrs. Edison a switchboard operator at the local Sears store. While she was at work, Danny was expected to care for his foster father. It was mostly fetching whatever the man needed, changing the TV channel to the shows he watched, and heating the previous night's leftovers for his and Mr. Edison's lunch. When he wasn't dozing or too short of breath, Mr. Edison would tell stories about working the lead and zinc mines in Missouri, how he had started as a ore sorter when he was ten and worked his way up to driller before the dust got to his lungs. The stories were frightening, filled with dark, claustrophobic spaces, fatal falls down shafts, premature dynamite explosions, and suffocation from bad air. They left Danny dreading Mr. Edison's chatty moods,

"Why didn't you quit?" he once asked. "Why didn't you leave and find a safer job?"

Mr. Edison frowned back at the boy's impertinence.

"Boy," he replied, "a man does what his hand is set to do."

A coughing fit immediately followed his answer, and Danny ran to fetch a clean handkerchief to replace the one Mr. Edison filled with thick phlegm. The disgusting chore and the stories of death and disaster made the boy resolve never, ever to set his hand to anything dangerous or nasty. Whatever he grew up to do, it was going to be a safe, modern office building and he would wear a suit and tie and shined shoes—no overalls and work boots for him. He would eat his lunch at a restaurant, not from a lunch pail, and he would save his money and be rich enough that servants would change his TV channels, not some foster kid who hated the sounds and smells of Mr. Edison hacking his lungs out in his easy chair.

Miss Bellinger's voice brought Danny out of his thoughts.

"The end of October, Mr. Edison needed hospitalization so I had to move Danny quickly. There was a spot open with the Shipfords and, even though Mrs. Shipford preferred girls—"

"I remember," Mr. Jeffries replied. "A real mess, that one."

Danny cringed at the understatement and the memory.

Second week in December, Neal Gantt, a sixth grader who liked harassing younger kids, had picked Danny as his next target. After a week of getting his lunch bag stolen, his glasses knocked from his face, and more shoves and tripping that he cared to remember, Danny formed a plan. He would offer Gantt a trade—his foster father's liquor stash if the bully found someone else to harass. To his relief, Gantt jumped at the offer.

It had been a foolproof plan—at least, until Gantt proved he was too stupid to follow simple directions. Instead of getting the hidden pint on his way home from school as Danny had instructed him, Neal first went home to watch TV and eat supper. The result was Mr. Shipford arrived at the hiding place just as Gantt pulled the pint from behind its bush. Shipford had grabbed the bully by his shirt collar. The bottle slipped to the pavement and shattered while Gantt screamed for his dad, Shipford shouted obscenities, and neighbors hurried from their homes to see what the fuss was about.

Danny, who watched the scene from behind a parked car, high-tailed it when the sheriff''s deputy arrived in his patrol car, certain that Neal would spill the beans about him. He was curled up in his bed when Mr. Shipford came home after his involuntary trip to the local jail. Lying in the dark, pillow and covers piled high for protection, Danny had listened to the couple scream at one another, Mrs. Shipford furious about her husband's secret drinking, Mr. Shipford blaming it all on her and her hard-shell Baptist ways. Even after the two had exhausted themselves and gone to sleep, Mr. Shipford on the living room couch, Danny stayed awake, certain that the morning would bring either a whipping from his foster father or an ambush on his way to school and a pounding from Gantt.

Instead, it brought Miss Bellinger. His social worker spent a few seconds staring down at Danny as though she knew he was behind everything, then she told him to pack his things. He had thrown the little he owned into a battered duffel bag then he left without a word to either of his foster parents.

For a while afterward, Danny wondered if he owed the Shipfords an apology. After considering the matter, he decided everything had been Gantt's fault, not his. The lesson he took from the failure was never, ever leave anything to chance.

"Since charges were filed against Mr. Shipford," he heard his social worker say, "I moved Danny back to the Williamsons' home. I hated to do it, but you know how difficult it is to find an open bed during the holidays."

Difficult also described Christmas at the Williamsons' house. The family's celebrations were all wrong. Their cookies were store-bought sugar wafers covered in frosting and sprinkles, not the gingerbread men and fruit bars his grandma baked. The songs were played from 45s on the family stereo, not sung in his mother's alto voice and, weirdest of all, the Christmas tree was aluminum, bare of ornaments, and it revolved while lit by a rotating color wheel lamp. The novelty fascinated Danny, but it was so unlike the small cut tree that he helped decorate with tinsel and the delicate glass ornaments from his grandma's childhood that watching the tree change color made his heart ache even as he marveled at it.

Not even a gift from his social worker, a book about famous Americans, cheered him once Freddie announced books were for girls, and Danny was a rat-faced wimp for liking them. The Playboy magazine revenge helped some, but Danny spent the rest of his stay holed up in Mrs. Williamson's sewing room with his "girly" books, wishing with all his might he could be back with his mom and grandma.

The fourth week in January, he was sent to stay with the Busbys. Danny listened as his social worker told why that placement lasted only eleven days.

"Mrs. Busby said Danny was too quiet, too polite, and too well-mannered to be a normal child. She feared he was planning to murder her and her family in their sleep."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was. Worst of it was she said so in front of Danny. You should have seen his face."

The fifth evening at their home, Danny had overheard the adults talking about him as they watched TV after their two boys and he had gone to bed. The sound of his name brought him creeping from his bed to the top of the stairs where he sat pressed against the wall, hoping no one would spot him.

"I'm telling you, Jim," he heard his foster mother say, "he reminds me of 'The Bad Seed.' Remember that movie about the polite little girl who killed people when she didn't get her way? What if Danny's only pretending to be obedient? What if he's really planning to set us on fire in our bed like that little girl did to the gardener?"

Danny heard Mr. Busby assure his wife that movies were fictional, but Mrs. Busby never faltered.

"Jim, you know he's not like the rest of the boys we've cared for. He's smart and well-mannered—just like that little girl."

"Brenda, that little girl was in a movie. She's not real."

"And what about that boy in Springfield last year who punched his foster father and broke his nose? He's real."

"Dear, the boy's seven years old. I think I can protect myself."

Danny tried to picture himself punching Mr. Busby, a man who stood almost six feet tall and who coached CYO basketball at St. Agnes.

"So you think I'm being silly?"

Danny nodded in agreement.

"No, I think you're being over-cautious. Now, how about we head into the kitchen..."

Their voices faded as the adults left the living room. Danny slumped against the wall. Heck, he would never physically attack anyone, not when everyone else was bigger and stronger and didn't go blind the second their glasses came off. Besides, hitting any member of a foster family guaranteed a trip to Juvenile Detention and that meant no adoption, ever. It was much smarter to be sneaky if he needed to get even.

The next few days, however, proved that Mr. Busby had not convinced his wife to drop her suspicions. She tip-toed around Danny as though he were a bomb set to explode. She smiled a lot at him and shifted his assigned chores to her own sons. When Danny offered to do something else to help, her fake smile and assurance that everything was fine reminded him of the grownups in a Twilight Zone episode he had seen at the Shipfords. What was worst, her sons also remembered that story; they began calling him "Anthony" and asking him if he was going to send them into the cornfield. By the time Miss Bellinger came to check on him, Danny was thoroughly sick of the teasing and of his foster mother. His only worry as Mrs. Busby told the social worker about her fear was that Miss Bellinger might believe her, but all Miss Bellinger did was sigh and ask Danny to pack his things.

A laugh from Mr. Jeffries caught Danny's attention.

"It's a shame you didn't," he heard the director say. "Replacing Danny with a JD might have made Mrs. Busby more appreciative of good behavior."

Danny listened as the two adults laughed again then Miss Bellinger said that she had taken him back to the Williamsons' house. Danny had settled into the familiar twin bed in the spare room, rebuilt his retreat in the sewing room, and spent the next two weeks trying to figure out why no one wanted him. No clear answer came from his pondering other than the one Freddie kept pounding home—that he was a rat-faced freak and, even if the state tied all the money in the world around his neck, no one would ever like him.

Danny had refused to believe him the first time Freddie said it. Now, after so much proof, the taunt was beginning to feel true. He blinked back tears while Miss Bellinger told her boss about placing him with the Nielsens in Calderville at the end of February."

"That one lasted until the third week in May."

"What happened this time?" Mr. Jeffries asked.

"Well, he began to act up a month after he got there," she replied. "It was completely out of character for Danny; he's always so polite..."

Danny nodded at her words. He was polite because grownups, as a rule, responded well to polite kids. Sure, his good manners had creeped out Mrs. Busby, but she still responded to his good manners, even if it was with irrational fear. The data to-date had proved the rule worked, but John and Mary Nielsen were the exception to the rule.

The Nielsens lived on a farm outside of Calderville, in a house set back from the road on a long curving dirt road. Mrs. Nielsen ignored Danny's respectful greeting and outstretched hand, turning instead to Miss Bellinger to ask if the boy had brought sufficient changes of clothing with him. After his social worker had left, Mrs. Nielsen said two sentences to him: "Boy, don't leave the yard, and don't play in Mr. Nielsen's shed." She then went into the kitchen where a transistor radio was playing the local farm report, leaving Danny to fend for himself.

He spent the next hour exploring the house and yard, examining everything, whether in the open, behind a door, or in a cabinet. Seeing nothing to entertain him: no toys, no books, no television—only some agriculture magazines and that day's copy of the Calderville News-Democrat, Danny went to the front porch to wait for his new foster father to finish his workday.

Mr. Nielsen turned out to be as chatty as his wife. He greeted Danny with a "Hello, Boy," then he removed his boots and walked past him into the the house. The next words Danny heard from either adult were "Supper's ready" from Mrs. Nielsen then a quickly-said meal prayer from her husband. Their silence held through the evening. Danny tried asking questions, making comments about how nice their house was, offering to help clean up, but the two of them merely went about their routines as though there wasn't a seven-year-old underfoot. Finally, after an hour of watching Mr. Nielsen read the paper and Mrs. Nielsen knit to the sound of tinny classical music from the radio, Danny said his good-nights and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. There, he lay listening to the _clack_ of needles and Brahms' Violin Concerto, certain that the evening had been an anomaly, and his new foster parents would be friendlier tomorrow.

The next day, Mrs. Nielsen woke him with a shake of his shoulder and a curt, "Bus comes at five after seven. You can tell time, can't you?" Danny quickly dressed then hurried to the kitchen, where a bowl of oatmeal with butter and brown sugar was waiting for him by a glass of milk and a brown sack he assumed was his lunch. When he asked about Mr. Nielsen, Danny was told he was already in the fields. Mrs. Nielsen said nothing else while he ate, while he cleaned up for school, or when he left to wait for the school bus.

His first day at the Calderville Primary School went the way all his first days had gone. Everyone stared at him on the bus, but no one spoke to him. The teacher had to find him a desk, chair, and school books, which made Danny even more self-conscious about being new. His lunch was a bologna sandwich with ketchup, an apple, and a nickel for milk—not his favorite, but edible. Danny ate it at the end of a table filled with other second-graders, none of whom said a word to him. Sooner or later, he knew, his teacher would recite the "Let's all give the new kid a chance" speech then one or two of the kids would come over to say "Hi." He could wait. Friends weren't important right then. Important was securing his place with the Nielsens.

The second evening with his foster parents followed the format of the first one, as did the next day and the next one after that. No matter what Danny tried, neither Nielsen did more than acknowledge his existence—no offers to play, no praise for his school work, no conversation at all with him. He even asked if he could help Mr. Nielsen with his field chores, a request that got him only a snorted laugh in reply. As March passed into April, Danny decided to change strategies. If being good turned him invisible, then it was time to be bad.

That night, instead of asking for another helping of mashed potatoes, a request that would be answered by a silent passing of the bowl, Danny stood up and reached across the table. Mr. Nielsen glared at his outstretched hand.

"Boy," he said, "you ask if you want more."

Danny hid a smile as he sat back down. He'd been noticed. Mr. Nielsen had talked to him, and it felt good to finally not be ignored.

He tried it again the next day at breakfast by getting up to fetch a second glass of milk from the refrigerator rather than ask. Mr. Nielsen slapped the door shut before he could grab the carton.

"You've had plenty," she told him. "Go brush your teeth."

As soon as he left her sight, Danny broke into a grin. Two sentences; he'd gotten two whole sentences out of her. That evening, he behaved, but the next morning, he left his bed unmade, earning him a stern glare and a "Go make your bed, Boy."

From then on, Danny remained well-behaved and attentive at school, but he did everything he could to make his foster parents notice him. He chewed with his mouth open, left the toilet seat up and the kitchen garbage pail uncovered. He forgot to say "Please" and "Thank you" and he put mud in Mr. Nielsen's work boots. He brought his lunch bag home, blew it up, and popped it behind Mrs. Nielsen during her favorite radio soap opera then he laughed when she screamed. He practiced rude noises with the boys in his classroom and used them at the supper table. Danny drew the line at stealing and breaking things, but everything else was fair game, and each chewing-out or shouted "Boy!" was a point in Danny's favor.

After three weeks of his best bad behavior, Mrs. Nielsen finally asked Danny what the devil had gotten into him. It seemed an honest question, so he gave a truthful answer: getting yelled at was better than being ignored. His foster mother stared gape-mouthed at him for several seconds then she said, "Boy, we feed and clothe you. You have our roof over your head. For that, we expect the state to pay us and you to behave. Stop this foolishness or I'll send you back."

She then left the room, leaving Danny alone in the kitchen. Years later, Danny learned the exact word that described him: commodity—a basic good used in commerce that is interchangeable with other commodities of the same type. The Nielsens did not care about his straight As, his willingness to help, or anything else he needed or wanted. He was a monthly check from the state and nothing more.

His response had been to dash upstairs and throw himself on his bed—no, the Nielsens' bed; the state only rented it for him. He ignored Mrs. Nielsen's one call to supper and, for the first time since his family had died, Danny cried himself to sleep.

In the next office, Miss Bellinger continued his story.

"Mrs. Nielsen reported Danny's behavior in her monthly report so I checked his records and found his acting-up started about a year after his family died."

"That may have had something to do with it," her boss noted. "What did you find on your next visit?"

"According to Mrs. Nielsen, his behavior was improved, but his grades had dropped from As to Cs. I could tell he was losing weight although Mrs. Nielsen assured me he was being given enough to eat. Danny also seemed withdrawn, as bad as when I first met him."

Danny remembered that visit. He had ignored her, hating her because she checked up on him only because the state paid her—the same way it paid the Nielsens and the other families who had passed him along like a hot potato. None of them cared how he was treated or what he thought about it, and he hated Miss Bellinger's guts for that.

What his social worker did next proved she was one of the good guys.

"Over the Nielsens' objections," he heard her say, "I took Danny out of their house that afternoon and back to the Schwabs. Poor kid looked so bad, Carolyn almost didn't recognize him."

Danny remembered Mrs. Schwab greeting him with a smile and a hug. It felt good to be cooed over and welcomed, at least it did until he found a check stub from the state in Mr. Schwab's desk drawer. It showed they received an extra monthly stipend for providing emergency placements for children who needed immediate removal from their homes. Miss Bellinger might be on his side, but the Schwabs, just like everyone else, were paid to like him.

In the next office, he heard Miss Bellinger continue her account.

"We didn't have a bed available for a boy so I convinced Exeter County Social Services to let me place Danny with one of their families in exchange for one of their girls. He's been with the Wamboldts ever since."

"And how is that placement going?"

"Only problem this time has been with payment. The paperwork got lost between our office, Exeter County, and Accounts Payable so the first check was almost a month late."

Danny remembered Mr. Wamboldt's reaction: "They take much longer and I'll rent the boy out as farm labor." His foster father was smiling when he said, but Danny wasn't about to risk it. He stayed on his best behavior, but he also went through every drawer, closet, box, seat cushion, and purse in the house, searching for anything that would give him enough leverage to make the Wamboldts keep him if the state check never came. He kept his guard up with the couple, even when they celebrated his eighth birthday with a cake and a barbeque cookout in their backyard. As friendly as they might act toward him, Danny knew it was phony, bought and paid for by the state.

"Okay," he heard Mr. Jeffries say, "that brings me up-to-date on his status. Now, tell me—what's your opinion of the boy?"

Danny smiled to himself while his case worker ticked off his good points: healthy except for his eyesight, well-mannered, extremely smart, eager to learn, good in school, excellent grades, neat in appearance...

"However," she said, "there are signs he's getting—well, like you said: shopworn. In addition to his behavior at the Nielsens, both Carolyn and the Wamboldts tell me Danny's been sullen and bitter toward them. Given the reputation he's getting, no foster family will want to take him, and I can't keep dumping him on the Williamsons and the Schwabs. We need their beds for emergencies."

The long silence that followed chilled Danny to the bone. He dug his fingers into the edge of the window sill, wanting but dreading her next words.

"I hate to say it, but maybe it's time to consider the Boy's Ranch."

Danny clenched his teeth to keep from crying out at her betrayal.

"Normally, I'd agree," he heard the director say, "but—"

The _whomp_ of files hitting the desk behind him drowned out the end of his sentence. Danny turned, ready to scream at the interrupter.

"I'm back," the secretary announced with a smile. "You still doing okay? What's going on out the window?"

Danny quickly hid his anger and his eavesdropping behind a bland smile.

"Nothing much," he replied as he twisted around in the chair then reached for the comic book on the floor below him. "Just looking."

Despite his fervent hopes, the secretary next started the oscillating fan. Although he strained to hear, its steady _whirr_ covered the sounds from the open window.

"You ready for a soda pop yet?"

Danny opened the comic to a random page then shook his head. Minutes passed as he stared at the page, hearing only her work noise and the fan as he worried about he had heard. Miss Bellinger seemed ready to ship him to the Ranch, but Norman Jeffries sounded like he had another option. Maybe it was staying with the Wamboldts. Maybe it was somewhere worse than the Ranch. Could anything be worse than a group home filled with sullen, bitter, unadoptable kids?

He squeezed his eyes shut. If they sent him to the Ranch, Danny vowed to get even. He would grow up, make lots of money, and buy the state Social Welfare Department. He would fire all of the directors and all the social workers, and stop paying people who hated foster kids. He would burn down the Ranch, and make sure all the kids got real parents, even the funny-looking ones. The pages in his hands tore and crumpled as Danny swore he'd change things just as soon as he grew up and figured out how.

His name, called by Miss Bellinger, broke into his thoughts. Danny swallowed his anger as he slid from his chair. Comic book in hand, he trudged across the floor to his social worker. When she invited him into the office, he went straight to the offered chair, ignoring both adults, wanting only to get the bad news and leave.

Across the desk from him sat a smiling Mr. Jeffries. Danny twitched his mouth back at him, just in case a show of politeness might still work.

"Danny," he said, "Miss Bellinger and I have been reviewing your case. It seems your time with us hasn't been as enjoyable as we would have liked.

Danny dropped his gaze to the edge of the desk, and tuned out the director's words. If all the man had were mealy-mouthed platitudes, a phrase Danny once heard in a sermon and liked, then there was no reason to pay attention. Better to imagine how much nicer his own office would be when he grew up, how he would have big glass windows overlooking tall skyscrapers, and a huge mahogany desk with leather desk stuff and real painted art on his walls and—

A photo slid into view: a black-and-white snapshot of a man and a woman on a front porch. They were fair-haired: his brush-cut, hers braided and coiled like a crown around her head, and the man's arm was around the woman's waist. The couple smiled out of the photo directly at Danny, and both of them were wearing glasses.

"Alan and Clara Sutterfield," he heard Mr. Jeffries say. "They're looking for a boy just like you."


	3. Harold

A/N: Harold appears to be Finch's favorite first name and Wren seems to be the root name for many of his current aliases. Here is my take on why.

Someone commented about the mean foster families in the last chapter. I adopted my children through state agencies so I know most foster families and social workers do care about the children. However, happy times and kind people do not produce paranoid geniuses who also are suckers for surveillance.

This story is definitely AU. Although I may make adjustments as new info is available, I'll be sincerely surprised if I'm even close to canon once it's all revealed. All persons, locations and companies in this story are fictitious.

**Be warned:** characters curse in this chapter. One lets loose a load of deliberately offensive invective meant to insult and infuriate another character, but it's for a good cause.

Fredericks County Social Welfare Office  
>July 1966<p>

Danny Cumming held the photo of the couple who wanted to be his parents while Mr. Jeffries told him about them.

"Alan Sutterfield is a draftsman in the airframe design department at the McKenna Company in LaSalle, Missouri. His wife Clara is from Vienna, Austria; they met there while Mr. Sutterfield was serving with the U.S. Occupational Forces after the war. Mrs. Sutterfield volunteers at the public library in Ferdinand, which is the suburb of LaSalle where they live. That's their front porch in the photo."

Danny checked the little he could see of the porch behind the couple. That dark horizontal line might be the arm of a porch swing. If so, he knew where he would be spending his spare time—right in that swing, curled up with a book from the Ferdinand Public Library checked out to him by the woman who wanted to be his mother.

He smiled at her image while Mr. Jeffries continued to talk.

"The Sutterfields want an older boy, one around the age of the children of their friends and neighbors."

"Why didn't they apply in Missouri?"

The question came from Miss Bellinger, Danny's social worker. Mr. Jeffries referred to the folder from which he was reading.

"According to the cover letter they sent us," her boss replied, "a friend of theirs met Danny at church while visiting relatives last Thanksgiving. The friend was very impressed and suggested the Sutterfields see if he was available for adoption."

Danny thought back to the past November. He had been with the Shipfords and attending First Baptist Church with Mrs. Shipford, but no specific conversation with an adult came to mind. Grownups were always asking him questions like "What do you want to be when you grow up?" (polite answer: a scientist; real answer: rich enough to avoid people who ask me questions) or "What happened to your family?" (polite answer: they died in an car accident; real answer: my mom and grandma died, and my relatives didn't want me so, if I ever met anyone else named Cummings, I'm going to kill them.) That he had impressed a grownup enough to be recommended as a son for the Sutterfields made Danny feel all warm inside.

His happiness grew when he heard Mr. Jeffries tell Miss Bellinger that social workers from Monroe County Social Services had approved the Sutterfields as adoptive parents before sending their request for Danny to Fredericks County. All that was needed was for some paperwork to be completed and Miss Bellinger would drive him to Missouri for placement.

Mr. Jeffries then held out his hand to Danny.

"Son," he said, "I'm truly happy for you."

Danny beamed at him as he shook the director's hand. No more foster families, no chance of being dumped at the Ranch, and only one more time of packing his possessions in his duffel bag and being taken somewhere else. He had a family. If that wasn't happy, then nothing was.

On the road to LaSalle, Missouri  
>July 1966<p>

During the days it took for Social Services to process his paperwork, Danny never let go of the Sutterfields' photo. It was besides him on the metal glider in the Wamboldts' backyard where he liked to read in the afternoon, at the table by his plate for meals, and then on the nightstand by his bed. His foster mother finally took Danny to the Five & Dime and bought him a picture frame to protect his soon-to-be-adoptive parents from spills and handling.

Finally, late Monday afternoon, Miss Bellinger called to say everything was ready for him to leave the following morning. He ran to his room to pack his possessions, carefully placing his framed photo between two of his shirts. The hours after bedtime dragged as Danny lay staring at the ceiling, his excitement over his new life with the Sutterfields driving sleep away.

The next morning, Danny picked at his breakfast, still too excited to eat. He then dressed in his Sunday best: a crisp white dress shirt, a dark red tie knotted by him and straightened by his foster father, black slacks, and his dress shoes. His thanks to the Wamboldts were profuse and sincere, partly because he knew they had tried to be good to him, but mostly because Mr. Wamboldt had given him a book on aviation history to read on the trip. He then put his duffel bag and book bag in the truck of the his social worker's Studebaker Lark before climbing into the front seat and fastening his seat belt. While Miss Bellinger backed out of the Wamboldts' driveway, he waved at his final foster parents then he put his attention to the road ahead, eager for the five-hour trip to be over.

For the first thirty minutes, Danny watched the scenery go by, ticking off the local places he would never see again: the hardware story where Mr. Wamboldt worked, his elementary school, the ball field where he had proved again how lousy he was at both hitting and catching—so lousy that the coach had told Mr. Wamboldt to keep Danny out of sports until he reached junior high and could try out for cross-country. The route Miss Bellinger had chosen took them through Fredericksburg, where Danny grinned at the building where Norman Jeffries had his office, then past the Calderville school he had attended while staying with the Nielsens. Danny twisted in his seat as though wanting to give it a fond farewell then, with his hand hidden by his body, Danny shot the schoolyard a bird in honor of his skinflint foster parents.

After they crossed the river into Illinois, Danny got out the book on aviation history and turned to the "M" section of the index for the McKenna Company. Miss Bellinger glanced at the pages he was reading.

"Checking out Mr. Sutterfield's employer?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "There's a lot of references here."

"McKenna has built a lot of airplanes and I think they also build space capsules now. You'll have to ask Mr. Sutterfield what projects he works on. I'll bet he'll appreciate your interest."

Danny smiled back at her, happy she approved of his plan.

"Maybe you could tell me more about them?" he suggested. "Something from their application...?"

His social worker took her eyes from the road long enough to shake her head at Danny. He tried his most winsome grin, but the way her eyebrows shot up proved his act had failed to impress.

"I told you already, she said, "that information is confidential."

"But they're adopting me," he countered. "I'm going to find out everything about them. Can't you tell me now?"

Miss Bellinger's lips tightened.

"Spying on people is rude," she snapped. "If I were you, I'd break that habit before this trip is over."

Danny sank back against the front seat as his cheeks warmed with embarrassment.

"You know?" he asked.

Miss Bellinger nodded.

"How else would Neal Gantt have found out about Mr. Shipford's secret liquor stash?"

"Uh... he saw him hiding it?"

"That's one possibility," she agreed, "but it's not the real one, is it?"

Danny turned and stared through the passenger window at the passing scenery. Miss Bellinger said nothing more, and her silence felt like a heavy wool blanket tossed over his head to smother him.

Finally, he spoke up.

"No, but I didn't want to get Mr. Shipford in trouble. I did it to keep Neal from beating me up."

"I thought as much, Danny," she replied, "but you should have told me or the Shipfords about being picked on. That's why we're here—so we can help you and keep you safe."

Danny said, "Yes, ma'am" only to be polite. His case worker only visited a couple times a month so she was no help for imminent threats. Telling the Shipfords had never occurred to him. Schoolyard stuff was supposed to stay in at school. Tattle to parents, even foster parents, and things only got worse.

"I know you're smart," Miss Bellinger continued, "and I know you mean well, but you don't have enough experience yet to know all the consequences of your actions. That's why it is important to follow the rules, keep your eyes to yourself, and obey your parents—especially obey your parents and be a good son to them."

Danny nodded so hard, his glasses bounced on his nose.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, "I'll do whatever the Sutterfields tell me and I won't spy on them—not ever. I promise."

Danny sank against the seat back and thought about how Neal and the Shipfords felt like ancient history to him, but stuff like that never went away. His entire life was documented by the state: the relinquishment papers signed by his uncle, the initial write-up from his social worker, his school records, the reports written by his foster parents, all of it then stored in some state-owned file cabinet, hiding like a trap waiting to being sprung on him when he least expected it—like right now. Sure, this time it turned out okay, but what about the next time?

He drew in a deep breath as he eyed his social worker.

"Miss Bellinger," he said, "Did you tell the Sutterfields about Neal and Mr. Shipford?"

Danny let his sentence trail off as he bit his lip and waited for her reply. Miss Bellinger shook her head.

"The Sutterfields received a description of you that I wrote—basic facts like height and weight and how you get straight As in school and like to read. It says nothing about your birth family or who your foster families were. All your records are confidential, just like the Sutterfields' application, and your files will be sealed as soon as your adoption is final."

"How long does that take?"

"Nine months," she said, "just like waiting for a baby. After that, a judge will grant a decree of adoption, and you'll be a Sutterfield for the rest of your life."

Her answer helped ease the ache in his stomach. Danny thanked her then he opened his book to the chapter on the McKenna WWII airplanes, but his mind keep chewing on the idea of records. Everybody had files, even kids. There were school reports, and Sunday School attendance records, and, when Danny grew up, he would have a driver's license, a draft card, tax payments, insurance policies, payroll records—all the same papers he had seen stored in the Nielsens' closet, the Wamboldts' spare room, and in Mr. Schwab's and Mrs. Shipford's desks. No fact was really secret, especially if an eight-year-old boy could uncover it. Maybe it wasn't enough be so rich he could avoid people and their questions. Maybe, to be really safe, he needed some way to hide from all those records. Maybe he needed a secret identity—sort of like Bruce Wayne had Batman, only his secret identity would hide Danny's real life from curious people. Maybe, just to be sure, he needed several secret identities: one for work and one for where he lived and one for emergencies and—but Miss Bellinger just said all his records would be sealed. Danny Cummings, foster kid, was going to disappear forever. Danny Sutterfield would never have to worry about stuff like that, not ever.

Danny let out a deep sigh as joy replaced his fear. Danny Sutterfield—every time he thought or said the name, it sounded good, good enough to make his worries go away, good enough for him to turn his attention back to the book on his lap. He lost track of the small towns and crossroads that passed by his window as he read about dive bombers and torpedo bombers, civilian passenger planes modified to carry troops and supplies, night fighters, close support aircraft, and gliders that carried paratroopers on one-way trips behind enemy lines.

"Mr. Sutterfield has his amateur radio license."

The unexpected comment from his social worker made Danny jump. He kept his gaze focused on the book, not daring to look up in case she had let the fact slip by mistake. A few seconds later, she added another fact.

"He also is a photographer and has his own darkroom. Mrs. Sutterfield speaks German, French, and Russian."

Danny held perfectly still as he sneaked a look at his case worker. Miss Bellinger appeared to be completely focused on her driving, but she was smiling as she watched the road before them.

"You were honest with me about spying on Mr. Shipford," she told him, "so I guess it can't hurt to tell you a couple of things, but this is it. Don't you try pumping me for more."

"Yes, ma'am."

His social worker nodded to acknowledge his reply. Danny kept quiet, hoping she might surprise him with more information, but she said nothing more. After a few minutes, he gave up to mull over the new information. German, French and Russian—the more languages he learned, the more history he could read. Danny did not know much about Mr. Sutterfield's hobbies except that neither one involved throwing and catching. Maybe it wouldn't matter to his new father if his son was lousy at sports.

Danny leaned back against his seat and began to imagine a day with the Sutterfields: waking up in his own room—no more sharing with foster brothers, then breakfast with his parents followed by a language lesson then a trip to the library with his mother, her shelving books or checking them out while he read, then the two of them coming home for lunch and more reading on that porch swing Danny was sure they had. When Mr. Sutterfield came home from work, they would eat supper then he and his father would go into the darkroom and do whatever it was that turned film into photos or they would sit in front of the shortwave radio and do whatever it was that let them talk to people in foreign countries like Germany or France. It was going to be great...

"Danny? Danny, wake up."

The sound of his social worker's voice opened his eyes. They were at a filling station; opposite Danny were two service bays and an office, its window covered with ads for petroleum products and the Ross County Fair. From the rear of the Lark came the sound of the service attendant unscrewing the car's gas cap.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Ross City, Illinois," he heard Miss Bellinger say. "I need to tank up."

"How far are we from Ferdinand?"

"About an hour. You need to use the restroom?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Danny got out of the car feeling half-awake and unsure of where he was going. The attendant, a teenager in a white shirt and black bow tie already limp in the summer heat, waved to get Danny's attention.

"It's around that way," the young man called to him, his hand pointing at the far side of the office. "The door's unlocked."

The boy smiled his thanks then he followed the attendant's directions. Around the corner, he saw a man sitting in the scant shade cast by a rack of tires. He was dressed like a mechanic in navy pants and a light blue work shirt, and he held a pack of Camels in his hands.

"Hey, kid," the man called to him, "kinda dressed up for a weekday. You going to a funeral?"

Danny snorted at the notion that only a funeral required a tie. He shook his head in reply as he jerked the restroom door opened then pulled it shut after him. When Danny exited the restroom, the man was standing, his cigarette smoldering half-smoked at his feet. The man caught Danny's attention by pointing his thumb at the Lark parked at the gas pumps.

"Good looking woman," he said. "She your mom?"

Danny frowned then nodded, unwilling to give the explanation an honest answer would require.

"You two live around here?"

Danny shook his head. The man reached behind the rack and picked up a knapsack, which he swung over his left shoulder. The boy changed his assessment from "mechanic" to "hitch-hiker wanting a ride," someone who would prolong the trip to his new parents' house.

"We're not going where you're going," he told the man, trying not to sound rude, "and we're in a hurry."

"I don't care about that," the man replied. "You and your mom look like good company."

Something about the way he chose that moment to look again at the Lark made the hair on the back of Danny's head prickle. He forced the corners of his mouth up to show he wasn't scared as he shifted his weight, ready to bolt for his case worker's car. Before he could move, the man dashed forward, cutting off Danny's escape. He drew a blued steel revolver from his pocket and aimed it at Danny's nose.

"Real good company," he said.

The man continued to speak, but Danny saw only the gun a foot from his face. The muzzle was bigger than a tunnel and the dimpled gray bullets in its cylinder all pointed at him. Danny's mouth went dry and he staggered back, but the man grabbed him by the arm with his free hand and gave him a hard shake.

"What did I just say?" he snarled.

His fingers dug into Danny's arm as Danny struggled to recall—something about walking to the car and the two of them getting into the front seat. He stammered out a garbled version of it, and the man gave him another shake.

"You forgot how I'm gonna shoot you and your mom if you say anything to anybody. You got that now?"

Danny hissed a "Yes, sir." The man shifted his grip to the boy's left shoulder then he spun Danny around.

"Remember," his captor whispered, "keep moving and don't say a word."

He pushed the boy then steered him toward the Lark. The gun dug into the back of his neck; Danny heard the bullets rattle with each step he took. Ahead of him, Miss Bellinger was seated in the driver's seat, her fingers tapping on the steering wheel as though impatient for his return. He silently urged her to turn and see the trouble he was in, but she did not budge. Inside the office, the attendant was talking on the phone with his back to the window. Danny slowed his pace, hoping the pump jockey would look his way, but a hard shove propelled the boy forward.

Danny next checked the road, where two cars and a pick-up truck were approaching from the south. He stared at them, willing them to turn into the gas station and stop his captor. The first car, a red Chevy BelAir, drove past the station. Danny crossed his fingers and took another step, but the second car, a black VW Beetle, continued its journey. He gritted his teeth and hoped with all his might for the white pick-up to turn in, but the Ford also drove past. Danny's breath caught in his throat and he began to tremble. Only the pain of fingers and muzzle digging into his skin kept him moving.

"Keep going, kid. We're almost th—"

The _ding-ding_ of tires crossing the pumps' warning hose behind them cut off the man's words. Danny jerked around to see a blue Mercury Marquis stopping on the far side of the pumps. A gray-haired woman smiled at him from the passenger seat as a man in overalls exited the driver's door. The creases around the old man's smile told of many hours spent in fields on a tractor, but his white hair warned Danny that no help would come from him.

The old couple and their useless smiles angered the boy. Couldn't these people see what was happening? Didn't they care? A prod of the muzzle cut off his thoughts.

"Not a word," his captor growled. "Keep walking."

Mostly to show how useless they were, Danny mouthed the word "Help" at them before turning away to take another step closer to the Lark. Ten more feet and the door handle would be in reach. Through the rear window, Danny saw his case worker look at her watch. He took another step. Eight more feet and his captor would be at the car's door, able to shoot both of them if neither obeyed.

"Smile, kid," the man whispered. "It's not so bad."

The sharp dig of fingers into his shoulder said otherwise. Danny took another step. Behind him, he heard the sound of footsteps then a trunk lid being popped open. Why it opened didn't matter; nothing mattered except the Lark's door six feet away and the gun at his neck. His next step brought him into Miss Bellinger's field of vision. When she turned to look at Danny, his captor shifted the revolver to the side of the boy's throat. Her eyes went wide and she shrank back against the driver's door. Danny stared at her, pleading with her to understand how he didn't want this... it wasn't his fault... please make it stop.

"You stop right there!"

The command was followed by the _chk-chk_ of a shotgun being racked. The grip on Danny's shoulder released as his captor grabbed him under his arm and hauled him around, pressing him so close that Danny's feet swung between the man's legs before hitting the pavement. As soon as the spin ceased, Danny saw the old man standing ten feet away, his feet planted wide, his face obscured by a single-barrel shotgun aimed at the boy and the man holding him.

"Let the boy go," the old man ordered. "Now."

From the corner of his eye, Danny saw the attendant dash from the office.

"Mr. Wren," he shouted, "what the hell are you—oh, shit!"

His captor turned to face the attendant, twisting Danny off-balance.

"You, get over here," the man told him, "in front of me—now!"

Danny saw the attendant gulp and go pale, but he remained in the office doorway as though rooted there.

"Stay put, Stevie," the old man told him "I got this."

His captor's laugh bounced Danny against his chest. He heard a metallic _snap _by his ear then the muzzle jabbed into his throat so hard it choked him.

"Tell you what I got, old man—I got this cocked."

His captor jerked the revolver up, forcing Danny's head with it.

"Won't take nothing to blow the kid's head off. Shoot me and he's dead—got that?"

The old man's mouth worked as though he needed to spit then he lowered the shotgun until it pointed at the oil-stained cement. The world froze around Danny, iced by the knowledge that the old man's giving-up meant no new parents, no reading on their porch swing, nothing but whatever his captor was going to do to him and Miss Bellinger. He jerked to his right, one final attempt to break free, but the grip around his chest held him in place. Danny's knees buckled and and he sagged against his captor. His captor cursed then swung him around to face the car.

"Open the door," he ordered.

Through the passenger window, Danny saw that Miss Bellinger was gone. She had run away on him—ditched him right when he needed her. The second his captor saw she was gone, he would pull the trigger. Danny gasped as panic stole the breath from his lungs.

"Open the damn door!"

Danny reached out his hand and wondered if getting his head blown off would hurt. Just as his hand grasped the door handle, he heard the old man call out to his captor.

"No man," he said, "hides behind a boy like that. That's the trick of a dickless coward."

Danny felt his captor stiffen at the insult.

"A baby with puke on his bib and lace where his manhood ought to be," the old man continued, each word laden with scorn. "A twinkle-toed cocksucker who grew up in skirts and ballet slippers because your daddy got the hell out of Dodge the second he opened your diaper and saw what a girl you were. Am I right, Fairy Puss?"

"Shut up," his captor rasped. "Shut up or I'll shoot the kid, his mom, and your old bitch!"

"You want to talk bitches?" the old man sneered. "Let's talk about your mommy. I'll bet she was a bitch in heat, spreading 'em for any man that got near her. Blow jobs a dollar, full fucks a fiver. Must have slipped in a queer to birth out a pansy like you."

His captor lifted Danny off his feet and swung him around until they were facing the old man again. The shotgun was braced against the old man's hip, its muzzle now aimed at Danny's knees.

"I said 'Shut up!" his captor yelled and the hand pressing on Danny's chest tightened into a fist.

"I don't take orders from twinkies," the old man told him. "Grow a pair and I'll think about it. Hell, if you want, I'll come over and check 'em for you. See if they're ripe yet. You'd like that—right, Pussy Boy?"

The revolver moved to where the boy could see it from the corner of his eye, its muzzle wavering between him and the old man. The old man's hand then eased back on the stock of the shotgun, raising its muzzle slightly. The boy's stomach churn with sick dread. The old man was going to shoot and he was in the line of fire. Danny squeezed his eyes shut as more taunts came at his captor.

"Pussy Boy," the old man repeated. "Goddamn pansy, can't wait for an old man to grope him. Just like your daddy's caresses—right, Twinkle-toes?"

Danny heard his captor growl then a blast filled his ears. Heat seared his face then a second blast sounded in front of him. His captor staggered and his grip on the boy's chest loosened. Danny pitched forward, landing on hands and knees. A woman screamed and Danny threw himself flat against the pavement. Seconds past, but all the boy knew was the ringing in his ears, the smell of oil , and the rasp of cement on his nose and chin as he shook with fear.

Something brushed his shoulder. Danny jerked back then rolled on his back, ready to kick and gouge against a second capture, but the touch was from Miss Bellinger. She crouched over him, her face still pale and tight with fear.

"It's okay, Danny," he heard her say through the noise in his ears. "It's over. You're safe." 

Part Two of this section is titled "Wren."


	4. Wren

Author's Note: This chapter immediately follows "Harold." Harold appears to be Finch's favorite first name and Wren seems to be the root name for many of his current aliases. These two chapters are my take on why.

This story is definitely AU. Although I may make adjustments as new info is available, I'll be sincerely surprised if I'm even close to canon once it's all revealed. All persons, locations and companies in this story are fictitious. I don't speak German so feel free to correct any mistakes I make.

Be warned: a character curses in this chapter. The last chapter contained some offensive invective; why it was said is explained in this chapter.

Altair: a 1970s-era personal computer sold in kit form

* * *

><p>Ross City, Illinois<br>July 1966

Jangled nerves and panicked senses jumbled Danny's memories of the aftermath of the shooting. He knew he had answered many questions from a lot of people, including a real live FBI agent, and that he went to the police station in a real police cruiser but, when Danny tried to recall the particulars of that afternoon, only four things stayed with him.

The first was the sight of his captor lying on the cement not a yard away, his right arm resting against the wheel of the Lark with his revolver still in-hand. The man's lower jaw sagged open loose and the center of his face was gone—no nose, no eyes, no upper lip, nothing but bloody pulp mixed with bits of bone. Although gentle hands immediately turned him away from the body, Danny's stomach knotted then heaved up his breakfast, as much from shock at the sight as the knowledge that, had the old man missed, he would be the one lying there with his head all red and mangled.

For months afterward, the dead man and his ruined face haunted Danny's dreams, hiding around corners or inside cupboards and closets. When the boy came near, the dead man would reach out and rip Danny's face off, leaving him to awake cold and trembling, too scared to scream or explain his pain and terror.

The second clear memory was of a conversation that happened after he saw the dead man. Danny was in the office, sitting on a battered wooden desk with his back to the window. Scratches on the right lens of his glasses blurred his vision. The ringing in his ear from the revolver blast muted the sounds of the police officers talking outside, and his cheek and temple stung where the muzzle flash had hit it. When Danny raised a hand touch his face, he saw that his palm was oozing blood even though it did not hurt. He was staring at the wound, wondering why it was there, when the old woman walked up to him.

"I'm Ella Wren," she said to him, "Son, I'm so sorry about what happened to you."

The boy lowered his hand to his lap as he shrugged off her words. After all, it wasn't like they changed anything.

"We need to get you cleaned up," she continued. "Stevie can't find the first aid kit so we're waiting on one of the officers to fetch us one. Your mother's gone to get warm water and some clean towels from the restroom."

The word "mother" sent a surge of anger through the boy.

"She's not my mother," he snapped. "She's my case worker, and I don't want her help."

Danny lowered his head and stared at the scuff marks on his shoes as his anger spit out its reasons in muttered phrases: _he was gonna kill me… paid to keep me safe… ran away…._ Remembering that empty front seat and being left alone to get his head blown off enraged the boy. He balled his hands into fists, digging his fingers into the scrapes on his palms, anger keeping the pain at bay.

Mrs. Wren listened for a moment then she seated herself on Danny's left, saying nothing until he raised his head to glare at her.

"Your moth—case worker didn't leave you," she told him, "I dragged her out of her car."

Danny rejected her explanation as a stupid lie. Mrs. Wren was old and at least six inches shorter than his case worker—no way could she have dragged a baby from the Lark, let alone Miss Bellinger.

"Yeah?" he sneered. "How?"

Mrs. Wren smiled as though very pleased with herself.

"I sneaked up to the car door," she replied, "while that man was wasting his time threatening Stevie. I could have told him Stevie wouldn't obey him. That boy is a damp dish rag. It comes from his mother reading that Dr. Spock book and forgetting all the good advice her momma gave her, but that's neither here nor there. What I did was tell your case worker she had to get out of the line of fire so Mr. Wren could concentrate on not hitting you. She didn't want to come with me but, when my mind's set, I don't take 'No' for an answer. I opened her door and grabbed her sleeve and took her back to our car with me."

It took Danny a while to sift the wordy explanation and find its heart: that his case worker did not leave willingly.

"Miss Bellinger wanted to stay with me?" he asked, just to be certain.

"That woman," she replied, "wanted to pull you through the passenger window then take off running with you. I knew that would get the three of us killed so I told her to let my Harold handle things and everything would come out all—"

A rap on the window cut off her sentence. Danny saw Mrs. Wren look toward the window and nod as though in reply to someone then she slid from the desk to her feet.

"I have to go talk to the police now," she told Danny, "but you know this—that man hadn't hit the ground before your case worker was at your side. She wanted nothing except for you to come through safe."

She patted his hand and smiled at him before heading for the door, leaving Danny staring after her, too stunned by the news to respond. A few seconds later, when his case worker came in with clean towels and water, he threw himself into her arms, knocking the bowl and the towels to the floor, and he held her as tightly as he could as he burst into tears. It was the first hug he had given willingly since his family had died, and the memory of Miss Bellinger sobbing with him as they rejoiced at being alive stayed with him much longer than the nightmares did.

The third clear memory came from the office of Ross City's Chief of Police. Danny was seated in the big leather chair behind his desk, having just finished repeating his story for the chief and the FBI agent. After the agent thanked Danny for his cooperation, the chief told him to make himself at home while they talked with his case worker.

After the two men left, Danny did not take advantage of the chief's offer. Instead, he drew up his knees and stared at the hole in the right leg of his slacks and the gauze under it that covered his skinned knee. Miss Bellinger also had bandaged his palms, but the powder burn on his face and the scrape on his nose rated only soap, water, and some iodine. She also had tried to remove the grime that seeped into his shirt and tie when he hit the cement, but her efforts only served to spread the oil stains. So much, he thought, for getting dressed up that morning. Now, he looked like a bully had beat him up then dumped him in a mud puddle—and that was only the parts of him that showed. The way his shoulder and chest ached, Danny knew they had to be covered in bruises from his captor's hands. The memory of being held by that man tightened the boy's chest and set his eyes to watering.

The sound of chair legs being dragged across linoleum drew Danny from his thoughts. He snuffled hard, determined not to cry where anyone could see him, then he looked up to see Mr. Wren standing at the far side of the chief's desk. His left hand held the back of a wooden chair, and the thumb of his right hand was hooked on the pocket of his overalls.

"You mind some company?" he asked.

Danny shook his head, glad of the distraction. Mr. Wren lowered himself into the chair, easing his overalls with a wiggle as his rear reached the seat. To Danny, he looked even older than he had at the filling station, and his gaze kept sliding away from the boy as though the old man's thoughts were elsewhere.

"You doing okay, son?" he asked, his voice rasping the words.

The boy swallowed hard then said, "Yes, sir."

"My wife," he said, "sent me in here to apologize for cussing. She thinks my words weren't fit for young ears even if I had a good reason for saying them."

The boy took a moment to think about the old man's cussing. He had heard men curse before: Mr. Nielsen at a balky cow, Mr. Shipford after the Gantt incident, Mr. Edison from pain after a bout of coughing, but Mr. Wren wielded his curses with artistry and craft, the filth rolling off his tongue like the stanzas of an epic poem. His foster fathers' efforts paled in comparison.

Danny shook his head to deny the need for an apology then he said, "You said those things on purpose. You wanted him to forget about me and get angry at you."

The old man's eyebrows shot up. He stared at Danny for a moment as though surprised then he nodded slowly.

"You got that right, son. When I was a drill instructor, back during the Depression, I learned how to piss off young bucks using nothing but words—to put pressure on them and mold them into Marines. I knew those same words would distract DeWayne and let me take him out before he hurt you."

The name used by the old man meant nothing so Danny asked about it. Mr. Wren frowned at his question.

"Didn't Chief Haas or that FBI agent tell you?"

Danny shook his head. Although the boy had asked about his captor, both men acted like typical adults by figuratively patting him on the head and telling him not to worry. A _harrumph_ of disgust from the old man made Danny hope he might be more forthcoming. He watched the old man frown, his eyes focused on something Danny could not see, as though he were deciding whether to be honest or not.

Finally, Mr. Wren shifted his gaze back to Danny.

"Son," he said, his words slow and quiet, "at your age, you shouldn't know that evil exists and how any day on Earth can be your last. I'm truly sorry you learned otherwise today. Since I can't take that knowledge from you, I guess it's fitting you know the rest of it. Alvin DeWayne, the man who tried to kidnap you and Miss Bellinger, was wanted for the abduction, rape, and murder of six women in three states. You and your case worker were going to be his next victims."

Rape was only a definition in a dictionary to Danny, but he now knew what abduction felt like: a controlling hand on his shoulder, being forced to go places he didn't want to go, choking on a gun shoved into his throat. If Mr. Wren and his wife hadn't needed gas, Danny knew he would have learned what murder felt like, too. His mouth went dry and he grabbed the arms of his chair to keep from trembling.

"I'm damn glad," Mr. Wren continued, "you had the smarts to tell Ella and me you needed help."

Danny dropped his gaze to his knees, shamed by the memory of his mouthing that word in anger at them.

"I didn't really think you'd help me," he admitted, leaving unsaid how he had thought the couple useless.

A dry chuckle drew Danny's attention back to the old man.

"I guess we surprised you on that," Mr. Wren told him. "'Course, the way you handled the situation surprised us, too. You did everything DeWayne told you to do, but you did it slow and deliberate, and you gave Ella and me the time we needed to get my shotgun from the trunk, and get Miss Bellinger out of harm's way. Then, at the end, I could see you'd figured out what I was going to do, and you had the courage to stand still and let me take my shot. I'm telling you, son—you are a brave young man."

Danny shook his head so hard, his glasses bounced on his nose.

"No," he said, the word drawn out until it became a moan. "I was scared."

The old man leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk as he peered straight at Danny.

"Son, courage is when you overcome your fear and do what has to be done. You can be scared as a sinner on Judgment Day and still be brave."

The old man sat back in his chair.

"Don't tell anyone, but I was scared, too. Last thing I wanted to do today was kill someone. To take a life is a terrible, terrible thing and this was so God-damned risky—"

Mr. Wren's gaze again slid away from Danny's face to focus on the desktop between them. The creases around his eyes moistened and his breathing picked up a rhythmic hitch that matched the trembling Danny was trying to hide. Something twisted inside the boy as he realized what the old man was picturing.

_It's me held by DeWayne at the filling station… the same scene but from where he was standing… he's feeling the weight of his shotgun in his hands… watching the revolver move from pointing at me to pointing at him… knowing he has to kill my captor to save me… knowing he could miss and kill me… and he knows, if DeWayne kills him, then Dewayne will shoot me and the station attendant, and he'll hurt Miss Bellinger and his wife before killing them… he knows there are so many ways this could go wrong… he sees all of them…._

The clear mental image chilled the boy. Never before had his brain put a bunch of stuff together to form an insight into anything. It would happen many more times in Danny's life: his comprehension of how computers work when he saw his first Altair, his design for a better cell network for his father, the relational database thesis project that would earn his first million, his method for incorporating object-orientation into relational database management systems that would make IFT even more millions, his organizational structure that allowed his many holdings to interact congruently while shielding his interests in all of them, his conceptualizations of social networking that, when licensed, would make him a billionaire, and then his creation of the Machine, the vast system that sifted all of human communication, sorting and correlating to find the thinnest of threads to save humanity from destruction—all considered 'genius' by others, all nothing more than the boy's brain solving a problem.

Only once did his genius ever manifest itself for a human interaction, and its insight into Harold Wren shook Danny to his core.

_I thought he was useless… he knew he wasn't… he knew what he had to do and how to do it… and what it might cost… and he did it anyway… maybe I was brave… but he was braver… bravest… and for a kid he'd never even seen before… me…._

Danny let go of the chair arm and reached his hand toward the wrinkled hands clasped on the desk before him. His reach fell short, but the action brought the old man from his thoughts. When his gaze met Danny's, the boy told him "Thank you." The words came out as a squeak, but Mr. Wren's smile in reply proved he understood the message.

The boy saw the old man again in September. His parents drove him up for two days of fishing and listening to Mr. Wren talk of his time in the Marines and his years farming and raising his family. They made the trip again in early November when word came that Mr. Wren had been found lying by his favorite fishing spot, dead of a heart attack. Danny stood by his casket and silently promised the old man that he would remember to risk everything to help if the need ever came to him, not matter what the cost.

The fourth clear memory was from later that afternoon. Danny was leaving the men's room when he noticed a small group of people talking at the far end of the hall. He saw his case worker, a grey-haired woman in a tan suit and, next to her—

His heart lost its beat as he tried to draw a breath.

It was them, the Sutterfields—life-sized and in living color. Mrs. Sutterfield was in white slacks and a bright blue shirt. Her hair was blonder than Danny's and coiled around her head like in his photo. Mr. Sutterfield wore a summer-weight gray suit with a tie the same red as the one Danny had chosen that morning.

The boy glanced down at his tie and its smeared oil stains. What with his blotches and bandages, the scratches on his glasses and the iodine on the tip of his nose, Danny looked nothing like the smartly dressed boy so eager to impress his new parents that morning. He considered ducking back into the restroom to hide from them, maybe taking another whack at cleaning his tie, but he put that fear aside and squared his shoulders, wincing only a little as bruised muscles flexed, before starting toward the group.

_If they don't want me_, he thought as his steps took him closer, _if they only see the dirt and they don't see me, then I don't want them as parents. I'll get Miss Bellinger to take me to the Ranch if I have to, but I won't go home with them._

He was fifteen feet from the group before he was noticed. Danny's case worker spotted him first; she whispered something to the woman in the tan suit while tipping her head in the boy's direction. The woman leaned toward Mr. Sutterfield; Danny heard her say, "There's your boy now."

With that, the Sutterfields turned to face him. Danny kept walking, but his attention was on their faces as he waited for their reaction. Both of them looked shocked, eyes wide behind their glasses, then Mrs. Sutterfield grabbed her husband's arm and the two of them took a step toward the boy. Danny noted how the shock stayed in Mrs. Sutterfield's expression, and he braced himself for rejection.

"Daniel," she called to him. "_Bist du verletzt? Nein_, no—"

She released her husband's arm and dropped to her knees, bringing herself down to Danny's height.

"Daniel," she repeated, her accent making it '_Don-yel_,' "I see bandages. Are you injured?"

Before Danny could say he was fine and correct her about his name, Mr. Sutterfield crouched down next to his wife.

"It's bumps and bruises, Clara" he told her, "nothing that won't heal."

He smiled to assure her then he addressed the boy.

"Mrs. Rayburn called my wife at home and told her someone had tried to kidnap you and Miss Bellinger, but the two of you were safe. She then said we'd have to postpone meeting you—"

Mrs. Sutterfield started shaking her head, interrupting her husband.

"I told her 'No postponing,'" she told the boy. "I called Alan at work and told him we needed to make certain our son is O.K."

She ended her sentence with a smile aimed at Danny, but her voice shook as though she still feared for his safety. Mr. Sutterfield reached for her hand and held it while he continued his story.

"So, I went home and got Clara and we drove straight up here. Mrs. Rayburn followed us in her car. She still has to take you to her office for the paperwork but, Daniel—you'll be home with us tonight."

A big snuffle from Mrs. Sutterfield punctuated his words. Her nose had gone red and big tears were running down her face, but the grin under those tears was made of pure joy. It matched the smile Mr. Sutterfield wore as he beamed happily at Danny. The boy felt every bit of his fear and worry vanish as his mouth formed its own huge grin.

_I can be Daniel for them,_ he thought. _They want me… I can be anything they want…._


	5. The First Week

Author's Notes

_Porte cochere_: a cover over the driveway where people are dropped off or picked up at the door. hub/Interesting-Architecture-Porte-Cochere

_Keds_®: high-top cloth sneakers nowhere near as fancy as current Nikes are

_Dungarees_: blue jeans

Yes, kids really worried about whether their bike was a "boy's" or a "girls"

_Mauthausen_: a concentration camp near Liz, Austria that was liberated by the US Army on May 5, 1945

_Sachertorte: _Chocolate cake

All locations, company names, and school names in this story are fictitious although the general area is based on St. Louis, Missouri.

Residence of the Sutterfields  
>Ferdinand, MO<br>July 1966 Day -12,951

The Sutterfield home was a two-story white frame house with a swing on its front porch. The driveway led under a _porte cochere_ to a two-car garage and work shed behind the house. Beyond the garage were large pin oak trees—none of them good for climbing, but two green metal lawn chairs and a glider grouped under one tree, and a picnic table by a charcoal cooker under another provided ample places to sit and read. Flowerbeds around the foundation of the house and a vegetable garden behind the garage served as proof that his new mother liked to garden, and a chain link fence marked the yard's boundaries.

Once inside the house, Mr. Sutterfield showed Danny around while his wife made supper. The interior featured hardwood floors, ornate wrought-iron registers, brick fireplaces in both parlor and den, a wide dark oak stairway leading up from the entry and a narrow stair running down to the kitchen. The living areas were furnished with a mix of antique and modern furniture, including a console stereo in the den by the TV. Mr. Sutterfield's darkroom was in the basement, along with the laundry and the furnace, and his 'radio shack,' as he called the room with his ham equipment, was upstairs overlooking the driveway.

Danny, however, noticed only the bookcases.

_Big ones—all of them filled with books… glass-front bookcases in the parlor, floor to ceiling bookcases in the den, and in my bedroom…._

While Mr. Sutterfield stood behind him, Danny paused in the doorway to stare.

_A big empty oak bookcase, waiting for me to fill it… and an oak desk with drawers and a chair… and a dresser and a chest and a double bed with a nightstand and a goose-neck reading lamp… everything matches—blue walls, blue rug, and blue plaid bedspread… it smells like fresh paint and new fabric… there aren't any scuff marks or scratches—that means everything is new… I get all new stuff…._

He stepped into the room. On his left, a full-length mirror on the closet door caught his reflections, showing Danny a bespectacled, grubby little boy, bandages on both hands, his slacks torn at the knee, his tie smeared with oil and his face stained with iodine.

_Getting shoved by that man… gun at my head… wanted to kill me and Miss Bellinger…._

The boy's legs went wobbly under him. He would have fallen if not for Mr. Sutterfield grabbing him under his armpits.

"Whoa there, fella. It's all right. I got you."

Mr. Sutterfield then picked Danny up and set him on the bed. Before the boy could gather himself to fight against being held, Sutterfield released the boy then he pulled out the desk chair and sat down by the bed.

"You okay?" he asked. "I know it's late and you had a rough day. Maybe we should skip supper and let you get to sleep—"

Danny's stomach picked that moment to growl. The boy flushed at his rudeness, but his embarrassment fled when he saw Mr. Sutterfield smile.

"Sounds like we'd better get you some food," he said. "Other than hungry, how are you doing?"

Between his joy at his new bedroom—so much more wonderful than Danny had expected—and the too vivid memory of Dewayne's gun at his throat, the boy could only stare mutely at his new father.

_I want to tell you… I really want to say I'm happy and I'm tired and I'm scared about messing things up with you, and I keep seeing that man and Mr. Wren about to shoot at each other and me… all of that all at the same time, but I don't know you well enough to tell you any of it… please understand…._

After a few seconds of the boy's silence, Mr. Sutterfield gave him a half-smile then said, "How about you getting changed and washed up before we head downstairs?"

The thought of getting out of his tattered clothes made Danny nod his agreement but, when Mr. Sutterfield showed him the connecting bathroom with its laundry chute, Danny turned to look at his new father.

_I don't know how you do things here… I don't know what I can ask for—but I'll feel that man's hands grabbing me every time I wear these clothes—I know I will… but they're my only good clothes…._

Danny gestured at his tie with a bandaged hand.

"Do you think," he asked, "Mrs. Sutterfield can get the stains out of my tie? Maybe mend my slacks?"

Mr. Sutterfield frowned for a moment then he said, "How about you change into pajamas then we'll go out and throw what you're wearing in the burn barrel?"

The image of his Sunday best, permanently sullied by Dewayne's touch, going up in flames, made Danny try a grin.

_Except my face hurts—all tight on one side…._

"Atta boy," Mr. Sutterfield told him. "You skin out of those things and I'll unpack and find your pajamas."

Fifteen minutes later, Danny was outside, barefoot and in pajamas and robe, watching Mr. Sutterfield pour kerosene in the rusty oil barrel used to burn trash. When his new father handed him a wooden match, Danny ran its head along the rough metal. When it sizzled into flame, he tossed it onto his clothes, watching as fire filled the barrel.

_Burning my clothes… it's like burning all the bad stuff that happened today… and not just today, but me being a foster kid, too…._

The trash fire, however, did not put Danny's past behind him. The arrest of Alvin Dewayne and the rescue of his intended victims by an old man with a shotgun was the lead story in the morning paper and on the morning news shows. Everyone Danny met the next day: the clerk in Children's Clothing at the local department store, the optician who buffed out the scratches on his glasses, the random strangers on the street, and the local beat reporter who came by the house right after breakfast—they all wanted to know how he was doing.

_I don't want to think about it… and I don't want to tell you about it.…_

Mrs. Sutterfield did a great job of shutting down the questioning.

'_My son,' she kept saying, 'does not want to talk about it…' she knew, even without me saying it…._

Her willingness to protect him—and to call him 'Son'—made Danny feel awfully good inside, good enough to forget about all his aches and pains and how the fresh coat of iodine on his burns and scrapes made him look like a orange-faced clown. It made him proud to sit next to his new mother in her VW Beetle on their way home from shopping, and to help put away his new clothes in his new dresser and closet.

It even made him feel confident enough to ask a question that had been bugging him.

_She said they call me Daniel because her husband believes Danny is a name for a boy, but Daniel is a name a boy can grown into as he becomes a man… that makes sense… she also said it's okay for me to keep calling them Mr. and Mrs. Sutterfield if I want to…._

"Where I am from," she told him as she hung a new white shirt on a wire hanger, "we are very formal about names. We use Mr. and Mrs. or Miss unless we are addressing a close friend. We even have two forms of the word for 'you.' The familiar is used with close friends and family, and the formal is for strangers, acquaintances, and those who are in business. When I first came here, I was called 'Clara' or 'Miz Clara' by people I barely knew. It was so odd and uncomfortable…."

Her words trailed off as her gaze shifted to a place lost in memory.

_She's talking about coming here after the war—Miss Bellinger said she met Mr. Sutterfield in Austria eighteen years ago… I guess I'm lucky… I don't have to move to a different country to get a family…._

A sigh from his new mother broke into the boy's thoughts. She adjusted her glasses then peered at him.

"Danny," she said, "We had planned to meet you in Mrs. Gillespie's office at the Family Services. We would have talked about your name and what you should call us, but that did not happen. Would you prefer to be called 'Danny?'"

Daniel gulped then he shook his head.

"No, I like Daniel. It's a new name for a new life. I just wondered why and what I was supposed to call you."

She smiled at his answer then said, "As much as I am ready to be your mother, I know we are still only acquaintances. The familiar will come in its time."

Daniel nodded as his new mother hung the last of the four white dress shirts she had bought for him in his closet. She then headed to the basement to run her laundry, leaving Danny to his own devices. He went straight for the bookcases in the parlor.

The first glass door he opened led to books with their spines and covers printed in unfamiliar letters.

_Maybe that's Russian… Miss Bellinger said Mrs. Sutterfield spoke Russian and French and German… if she speaks those languages, she must read them, too…._

The books on the other side of that bookcase used English letters in their titles. Daniel sounded out the unfamiliar words on the volumes at his eye-level.

_Die Fruh-schriften… Die Ur-sprung Der Familie des Private-gent-hums und des Sta-ats… Grun-disse der Critik der Politis-chen Ok-onomie—a critique of political economy? Maybe Mrs. Sutterfield went to college before she moved here…._

The next bookcase held history books in English. Daniel grinned at his discovery.

_Most of them are about European countries… and Russia… and there's one about Cuba…._

He considered picking one at random to read in bed, but decided it might be better to ask first. Since Mrs. Sutterfield was still in the basement, Daniel moved on to the den. There, he found the top shelves of the bookcases filled with old technical textbooks and stacks of magazines. The shelves he could reach held both hardcover books and paperbacks.

_Novels and histories… French Revolution, Russian Revolution, World Wars I and II… books on politics—Profiles in Courage, The Making of the President, 1960… I won't need a library card with all these books around…._

Again, he thought about taking a book to read, but it seemed safer to go up to his room and get one of his own books. He then settled onto the couch and read until lunch.

After lunch, Mrs. Sutterfield told Daniel she had an errand to run for her husband then she asked if he could stay at home by himself for an hour. When he said that he could, she left instructions for him to stay in the house or backyard and to not answer the phone or doorbell.

"That way, you won't talk to any reporters—okay?"

Daniel nodded.

"Also, you must not go into our bedroom so as to respect Alan's and my privacy."

The request brought to mind Miss Bellinger's warning: _'Spying on people is rude….'_

"Oh, yes, Ma'am," he quickly replied. "I won't go in there."

He noted how she smiled at his choice of words as she said, "And you must not go into the shed. There are many sharp tools in there. Wait until Alan can go with you."

Daniel repeated his "Yes, Ma'am" to the reasonable request then he asked if he could read the books in the bookcases.

"We do not have any children's books," she told him. "I will take you with me to the library tomorrow—"

"I read well above my grade level," Daniel told her, warm with pride at the fact. "I like history and science and geography, and I was reading The Grapes of Wrath before my foster mother said it was too old for me."

Mrs. Sutterfield pursed her lips.

"The Red Pony might be a better Steinbeck for you to read; you can check it out after we get your library card tomorrow. As for now…."

_She said I could read anything in the den except the paperbacks on two of the shelves… Mickey Spillane, W.R. Burnett, Jim Thompson—all murder stories… she doesn't have to worry… I'm not going anywhere near them… I picked one about Army Air transport because the one on the cover was made by Mr. Sutterfield's company…._

Daniel made himself comfortable on the glider under the pin oak as the sound of Mrs. Sutterfield's VW faded in the distance. Other summer sounds filled the neighborhood: the distant _whirr_ of a push mower, the music of a mockingbird singing to his mate on her nest, the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze, the slam of a screen door followed by rapid footsteps then the rattle of something slamming into a chain link fence.

"Hey!"

Daniel looked up from his book. At the back fence, at a gate centered between pink Rose of Sharon bushes, was a boy his own age dressed in black Keds, dungarees, and a white t-shirt.

"Hey," Daniel called back.

"You the Sutterfield's new kid?"

Daniel stuck his finger in his book to mark his place before getting to his feet.

_Wish I knew if this was a challenge or a greeting…._

Hiding a wince at the thought, Daniel called back to the boy that yes, he was the new kid.

The boy at the gate grinned in reply.

"Neat. We need more boys here. I'm Pete Bennett."

Daniel set his book on the chair and went over to the gate. As he drew near, Pete's eyes went wide.

"Man, you look like you went face-first into a buzz saw. What hap—oh!"

Pete quickly glanced over his shoulder at his house then he gulped twice.

"I forgot," he said. "Mom told me not to ask about what happened to you. She said neighbors shouldn't pry. Sorry."

The quick apology and the hesitant smile that followed assured Daniel that Pete meant what he was saying.

_Maybe, if we start over… I really don't want to get in bad with anybody my first day here…._

"It's okay," he told Pete. "I'm Daniel. Why do you need more boys here?"

The other boy relaxed at the question.

"I have two big sisters," Pete replied, his hand waving at his house behind him. "Kathy's in sixth grade and Karen's in fourth. The Jacksons next door over there—"

Pete pointed to a brick ranch next to the Sutterfields' house.

"—they have twin girls in eighth grade. The Daleys next to them have four girls; one of them is in class with me. You going in third grade?"

Daniel nodded.

"Me, too. What's your favorite subject?"

"Reading."

Pete made a face then said, "I hate reading. PE's more like it. You play ball?"

Daniel shook his head.

"S'okay. How about bike riding?"

Daniel remembered spending a week the past April wobbling up and down the Williamsons' driveway on a girl's bike, because the boys' bikes owned by the family were too big for him to straddle the bar and reach the pedals.

_Freddie teased me something fierce, but I kept at it…._

Before he went to the Nielsens' home, the boy had mastered the balance required to stay upright and the proper method of turning without falling over.

"I can ride," he replied, "but I don't have a bike."

Pete pointed to a small wooden building next to his house.

"You can use Kathy's if you don't mind riding a girl's bike. I can show our school and the playground and—"

Daniel stiffened at the offer.

_New kid in the neighborhood and riding a girl's bike… might as well wear a big sign that reads 'Go ahead—tease the heck out of me….'_

"I can't," Daniel said, glad of the good excuse, "I have to stay here until Mrs. Sutterfield gets home."

Pete slumped against the fence.

"Phooey," he told Daniel.

Daniel faked a frown to hide his relief.

"Yeah," he repeated, "Phooey."

The two boys stood quietly for a while, Daniel trying to figure out if he should say something, Pete looking like he was trying not to stare at the scrape on the tip of Daniel's nose.

"Pete! It's time to go."

The call came from the back door of the Bennett house. Daniel could make out the form of a woman standing inside the screen door. Pete twisted around to wave at her then he turned back to Daniel.

"I have to go," he announced. "I got Little League practice now. We going bike-riding tomorrow?"

Caught off-guard by the question, the word "Sure" slipped out of Daniel's mouth before he could think. Pete grinned at him.

"Mom gets me up at seven so you can knock on the back door anytime after breakfast, okay?"

Without waiting for confirmation, Pete turned toward his house, calling "See ya!" over his shoulder as he trotted across his yard. Left a little breathless by this turn of events, Daniel returned to the glider, but not to his reading. Visions of him riding down the Bennett's driveway on big sister Kathy's bike to gales of laughter from every kid in the neighborhood made his skin crawl.

_I didn't see a bike in the Sutterfields' garage that I could borrow… maybe I can say the scrapes on my hands hurt too much to hold handlebars... maybe I can catch measles or mumps or something… maybe the world will end…._

The sound of a Volkswagen engine came down the street, growing louder as it approached; Daniel heard it slow to an idle for a few seconds then he saw Mrs. Sutterfield drive up to the garage.

_Maybe, if Mrs. Sutterfield goes to the library tomorrow morning… I won't have to worry about this…._

However, the matter came up again at supper—ham steak, fresh green beans, and potato salad—when Mr. Sutterfield asked how Daniel's day had been. Daniel explained that he had explored the house and yard, gone shopping for new clothes, and….

"…I met the boy who lives behind you."

"Ah, that would be Pete, Sam Bennett's boy," Mr. Sutterfield said. "Every time I see Pete, he's going a mile a minute on his bike. Kid never stands still."

He then peered closely at Daniel and said, "Show me your hands."

Uncertain as to why, Daniel quickly looked at his palms, but saw only clean skin and gauze still fresh from Mrs. Sutterfield's care before they sat down to eat. When he held them out for inspection, his new father barely glanced at them.

"Clara," he said, "I don't think Daniel should start helping with the dishes until he gets those bandages off. What do you think?"

"I think I can wait a few more days for a dish-dryer."

Mr. Sutterfield turned back to Daniel.

"After you finish eating, we'll head out to the shed and I'll show you my workshop, okay?"

Daniel nodded his assent and the conversation turned to grown-up matters, leaving the boy to his thoughts while he finished the food on his plate.

_Mrs. Sutterfield is a good cook… I really like her potato salad… she puts red onions and radishes in it… Mrs. Wamboldt put pickle relish in hers—made it taste funny… we didn't say grace before we started eating—we didn't say it yesterday, either… wonder if they forgot… I don't mind helping with chores… it makes me feel useful… but I'm not supposed to get the bandages wet—makes it really hard to wash my hands and face… if I can't wash my hands, how am I supposed to use Mr. Sutterfield's tools?_

After supper, Daniel went out to the shed. The light was on inside and he could see Mr. Sutterfield through the window.

_He's holding a crescent wrench… I've seen Mr. Nielsen use them to tighten nuts on his tractor… probably better I don't repeat the words he used while tightening them…._

The boy grabbed the door latch and swung the door open. Inside was an L-shaped workbench with a large red vise, a miter saw, and pegboards covered with hand tools. The opposite wall held an assortment of yard tools, snow shovels, and leaf rakes.

Daniel saw only the shiny new bike on its kickstand in the center of the shop.

_It's a Schwinn Stingray—bright sky blue with a banana seat, chrome fenders, high-rise handle bars, and a hand-brake…._

His throat went tight and he had to blink to keep his eyes clear as he stared at the bike.

_It's… it's beautiful…._

"Can't have you running after Pete," Mr. Sutterfield told him. "The way he rides, you'll never keep up. Jump up on the seat so I can adjust the height."

Daniel straddled the long seat and put his feet on the pedals while his dad lifted the rear wheel by the seat bar. The pedals spun under the boy's feet as he pumped them.

"Looks good for now," his new father said.

He then showed the boy how to adjust the seat, should it need raising, and how to work the hand-brake.

"Don't jam it on without using the coaster brake," he warned, "or you'll go head first over the front wheel—not a good idea. Want to try it out on the driveway?"

Daniel spent the next hour riding a circuit between the sidewalk and the garage, seeing how fast he could take the turns without skidding. From the door of the shed, and from the kitchen window, the Sutterfields watched him with matching grins of joy at his happiness.

The next morning, Daniel rode his new bike to Pete's house then the two of them explored the neighborhood. He saw his new school, the local playground, and the ball field where the Mitchell Hardware Wildcats—Pete Bennett, catcher—played their games. The two boys rode past the homes of most of the kids who would be in third grade with them in September, Pete reciting facts about all of them while Daniel made many mental notes. They returned to their respective homes for lunch.

That afternoon, Daniel got his library card at the Ferdinand City Library, and dutifully checked out The Red Pony then he read magazines while his mother shelved books. That night, while Mrs. Sutterfield did the dishes, Daniel and his new father puttered around the darkroom, the boy soaking it all in as Mr. Sutterfield told him about cameras and lenses, F-stops and apertures.

_We're going on a picnic Sunday and Mr. Sutterfield will bring his camera to take photos of me… next week, he promised to show me how to develop them… Mrs. Sutterfield said she'll start teaching me German tomorrow… she gave me her English-German dictionary and a grammar book to keep on my book case…._

He went to sleep exhausted, but extremely happy.

That night, the boy had his first nightmare.

_I was heading over to Pete's back door… I got to the gate and that man jumped out from the bushes… he grabbed my chin and pulled it up… I felt my skin rip off… I tried screaming, but he kept pulling_….

He woke up just as the overhead light snapped on. In the doorway was Mrs. Sutterfield, her hand on the light switch. She was wearing a light blue robe with her hair down and braided, her eyes surprisingly large without the frame of her glasses.

"Daniel?" she asked, "are you okay?"

The boy tried to answer, but all he could do was tremble. She entered his room and perched on his bed, her voice repeating that everything was okay and he was safe. Her assurances and the warmth of her hand resting on his shoulder calmed the boy.

"Bad dream," was all he could stammer when asked what had scared him. "Bad."

Thursday, they went shopping for nightlights, one for his room, one for the bathroom, one for the hall between his bedroom and the Sutterfields' room.

"The lights won't keep the monsters away," Mrs. Sutterfield warned him, "but you'll see that they are in your dreams, not your bedroom."

That evening, Daniel found a narrow cardboard box next to his dinner plate. At his new father's urging, he opened it to find a bone-handled pocket knife.

"Suitable for whittling or protection," Mr. Sutterfield told him. "A boy needs a pocket knife as much as he needs a bike."

Daniel thanked him as he slid the knife into his pocket. That night, and for many nights after, the knife lay open on his nightstand. Like the nightlights, it didn't stop the nightmares, but it did give him enough courage to go to sleep.

_But, what really helped was, no matter how late I woke up, one of them was always there with me… telling me it was only a dream and I was safe…._

By Friday evening, Daniel was getting the hang of the household routine. Wednesday, and Friday mornings had been spent learning the German alphabet and numbers, both spoken and written, with the afternoons at the library, Daniel reading while Mrs. Sutterfield worked. Tuesday was laundry and cleaning, and Thursday was the family shopping day. Supper was served later on Fridays because Mr. Sutterfield stopped at the bank on his way home to deposit his paycheck. By that day, the bandages were gone from Daniel's hands so he helped with the dishes before the three of them went into the den for TV watching.

Saturday morning was spent working in the yard. While Mr. Sutterfield mowed, Mrs. Sutterfield taught Daniel to recognize a weed when he saw one. He used his new knowledge to plow through her flower beds, leaving a heap of wilting weeds by each of them.

"Boy's a working fool," he heard his new father say and the praise made Daniel want to burst with happiness.

That evening, as his parents were making themselves comfortable on the sofa to watch television, Daniel stood before them to ask what he thought was a simple question.

"When do we go to church tomorrow?"

_And where do we go? Are we Episcopalian like the Wamboldts were.. or Lutheran like the Schwabs and the Nielsens—except they were Wisconsin Synod Lutheran and the Schwabs were Missouri Synod… I've been Methodist and Presbyterian and Baptist and Catholic—or at least went to church with them…. _

The two adults exchanged glances while Daniel waited for an answer.

_I think my grandma and mom were Baptists—I sort of remember sitting in a pew with them and the hymns we sang were like the ones at Mrs. Shipford's church… it's getting hard to remember… anyway, do we get up early and go to Mass without breakfast and eat out afterward like the Mertons? Do we have breakfast then go to Sunday School and service like I did with Mrs. Shipford or do we go to early service then Sunday School like I did when I was Lutheran? _

He saw Mrs. Sutterfield set her jaw firmly as though it was her husband's job to speak.

_It's a simple question—just tell me so I'll know if I have to take a bath tonight or if I can take a shower in the morning before I get dressed… I also need to know if I need a Bible or a missal—Catholics don't take Bibles to church, but everyone else does… come to think about it, I haven't seen any Bibles here… no missals, either… maybe they don't—_

"Daniel, we don't go to church."

The boy gaped at them for a moment then he said, "Oh."

_I thought everybody went to church…._

"We don't?"

"No," Mr. Sutterfield replied. "Why don't you turn off the TV and I'll explain why."

Daniel quickly complied then he took a seat next to Mr. Sutterfield. He saw the man glance again at his wife before he pushed his glasses higher on his nose.

"We don't go to church," he said, "because Clara is a secularist."

Daniel leaned forward so he could peer at Mrs. Sutterfield.

"What's that?" he asked her.

"I believe that reason, not belief in supernatural spirits, should be the basis of our actions and opinions," she replied. "Religion alienates people from reality."

Daniel took a moment to consider her answer.

_Reason is good… and going to church didn't make the Nielsens good people… but…_

He looked up at his new father.

"What about you?"

Mr. Sutterfield drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"God exists," he said, "but, after everything I saw while I was overseas, I'm not sure he gives a damn."

The statement surprised Daniel and brought a sharp "Alan!" from his wife.

"Honey," he replied, "the boy asked an honest question."

"Yes, but he doesn't need to hear—"

Daniel watched his new father raise his hands in mock surrender.

"All right, I won't do a travelogue on Mauthausen if you save Karl and Georg until he's ready for them."

Clara smiled her assent then Alan turned his attention back to Daniel.

"Basically, Daniel," he told the boy, "neither of us feels comfortable in a church. We'd both rather spend Sundays enjoying life. That's why we're picnicking tomorrow—because it's going to be a beautiful summer day, and I want to take my family to the park and eat sandwiches and pickles and big slices of your mother's famous _sachertorte_."

He grinned at Daniel. The boy realized that his new father had changed the subject deliberately.

_That's okay… I can look up Mauthausen next time I'm at the library… and figure out who Karl and Gay-org are… and if my new family doesn't go to church, then I don't go... it's that simple…._

The boy met his father's grin with one of his own.

"Slices?" he repeated, referring back to the chocolate cake served earlier for dessert. "Does that mean I can have two?"

Clara rolled her eyes, but Alan ignored her.

"Of course you can have two," he replied. "It's our first family picnic and we're going to eat until we're stuffed. Now, pop over to the TV and let's see what the Addams Family is doing…."


	6. The Honeymoon Period

Author's Notes:

All location, schools, and businesses mentioned in this story are fictitious although the general setting is the St. Louis, MO area. All characters are also fictitious and only those created by me are owned by me.

_CW radiotelegraphy_ _set_: continuous band transmitter used for telegraphy

_Look at the Gateway Arch: _as of the time of this story, the Arch was not yet completed

_Natatorium:_ a indoor swimming facility

_Norman Jeffries_ : Director of the Fredericks County Social Welfare Office (from this story, chapter _Norman_)

_The honeymoon period is the span of time at the beginning of a placement when the child puts on his or her best manners with the new family. Feelings of happiness or euphoria can mask anxiety as the child tries to work his way into the new parents' hearts with overly compliant behavior that the child hopes will prevent rejection. This period usually lasts several weeks or months at which point the child usually starts to test the limits of his new family's patience._

Residence of the Sutterfield Family  
>Ferdinand, MO<br>September – November 1966 Day -12,890 through -12,821

Whenever an adult asked Daniel if he was happy about living with the Sutterfields, he always answered with a polite, "Oh, yes—very much." Truth be told, the thesaurus did not supply enough words to describe how thrilled he was with his new parents.

_I'm not a check from the state to them—I'm with them because they picked me and they really seem to like having me here... they talk to me about stuff and they do things with me—things like chores and projects and also trips to interesting places… last Sunday, we went to look at the Gateway Arch then we walked around the Botanical Gardens… and both the Sutterfields are smart, but not the same kind of smart… Mr. Sutterfield knows math and physics and engineering and he can do everything from fix a broken shovel handle to solder electronics… Mrs. Sutterfield isn't as handy, but she knows history and languages and politics—she knows more than all the teachers at my school put together… and they don't make fun of me for reading… sometimes, we read through dinner together… Mr. Sutterfield reads technical magazines like the Journal of the Aeronautical Sciences, and Mrs. Sutterfield reads newspapers like the Economist, and I get to read anything I want… _

As wonderful as the Sutterfields were, life with them was not perfect. There was the nervous excitement of learning how his new parents wanted things done: everything from putting the clean silverware neatly in the drawer fork-tines down to when his bedtime was and how long he could read after he climbed into bed. The Sutterfields were an organized, orderly couple so Daniel had no trouble fitting into their routine, especially since he was trying so hard to beat their expectations.

School presented a different set of problems.

_My new case worker, Mrs. Rayburn, came to visit two weeks before school started… she said the school principal wanted me to start at Cedar Street Elementary in fifth grade with Mrs. Collins and not in Mrs. Johnson's third grade class…._

Mrs. Rayburn presented the case for skipping two grades to the Sutterfield one evening after supper. Daniel had planned to hide himself on the stairs outside the parlor and eavesdrop on the conversation, but Mrs. Sutterfield called for him to join the adults. When Mrs. Rayburn questioned his presence, his new mother announced that any decisions made regarding her son must include him.

"This is not a hierarchy," she told the case worker. "It's a collective. Families work best that way."

Daniel noted how far up her forehead Mrs. Rayburn's eyebrows went at that statement, but the woman did not object when Daniel took a seat on the sofa by his new father. The boy listened as Mrs. Rayburn explained that Daniel's school grades and the aptitude test he had taken while with the Wamboldts showed him to have already mastered the requirements for both third and fourth grades.

"Daniel appears to be profoundly gifted," Mrs. Rayburn told them. "Moving him into the fifth grade will put him with students closer to his academic level. I think, for the boy's own good…."

As she continued to talk, Daniel considered the idea.

_School can be boring… it's hard to pay attention when I know all the answers… but this time, I'm starting school on the first day just like everyone else… and I know some of the kids already: Pete and his friends Sammy and Ted—well, maybe Sammy and Ted are more like acquaintances, but they say "Hey" when they see me and we can talk about stuff… if I move to Mrs. Collins' class, I'll be the new kid with strangers… except for Sammy's sister Karen… she's almost a foot taller than me… all the fifth-graders are bigger than me…._

He sat still beside Mr. Sutterfield, unwilling to show his uneasiness.

_I can hide being smart… I can't hide being smaller or awful in PE…._

His new father's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Daniel, what do you think about all this?"

The boy jumped at the question then he peered at the adults who were staring at him.

_I want school to be harder—more fun… but I'm making friends and I don't want to be the weird kid in class again… and I think I know what I should say, but I've only been here three weeks…._

The boy straightened his posture then smiled politely.

"I was going to ride to school with Pete on the first day," he replied. "I guess I can still do that if I'm a fifth-grader."

He held his smile steady as he waited to see if his bland comment would cause a problem.

_Mrs. Rayburn nodded as though I had agreed with her… The Sutterfields looked at me for a while then they looked at each other…._

Mrs. Sutterfield pursed her lips then she shook her head. Her husband nodded.

"Mrs. Rayburn," he then said, "Daniel's been through a lot this year. I don't think another big change is a good idea."

"But the boy will be bored with his lessons," the case worker noted. "As the saying goes: 'The idle brain is the devil's playground.'"

"Then we won't let him become idle," Mrs. Sutterfield snapped at her. "I will meet with his teacher to ask that she allow him to read quietly at his desk if he finishes his work early."

"We've been told that Daniel isn't a trouble-maker," her husband added. "I'm sure he knows better than to disturb the other students while they're learning."

He then turned to peer down at Daniel.

"Right, son?"

Daniel nodded vigorously.

_When school gets boring, I daydream… sometimes I'm a hero fighting monsters… sometimes I'm running a huge corporate empire—all rich and important with lots of employees…._

"Yes, sir," he replied. "I know how to be quiet."

Mr. Sutterfield grinned at him.

"I've noticed."

He then turned back to Mrs. Rayburn.

"Let Daniel stay where he is now," he told her. "We can always revisit the matter before he starts fourth grade."

"And," Mrs. Sutterfield added, "I'll see to it that Daniel does not have time to be bored or idle."

_And boy—once school started, did they keep me busy! Mr. Sutterfield helped me build my own CW radiotelegraphy set from scratch… when it was finished, he taught me Morse code with it… both my new parents gave me reading assignments: history, political philosophy, mathematics and applied sciences… I even learned calligraphy… Mrs. Sutterfield said it would be useful later… but all those were after school… during school, I had to stay quiet while the other kids did their work… I already knew better than to raise my hand for every question… kids always tease the know-it-all…._

Another problem occurred the second week of school during recess. Daniel was watching Ted and Sammy play tetherball when three boys from Mrs. Williams' fourth-grade class approached him. One of them stopped in front of Daniel while the other two flanked him. To Daniel's annoyance, neither Ted or Sammy bothered to stop their game to stand with him, and Pete was nowhere in sight.

Feeling very much alone, Daniel squared his shoulders and waited for the older boy to say what his beef was.

_I was expecting something about being adopted, or a foster kid.. instead, the fourth-grader asked if I was saying the Pledge of Allegiance at the beginning of class… I told that I was… he then told me I had to stop it… the demand didn't make any sense... so I asked him why…_

"Because," the older boy replied with the certainty of a boy reciting memorized lines, "my mom knows your mom and she told my dad your family doesn't go to church. My dad said the only people who don't go to church are godless communists and they have orders that keep them from saying the Pledge of Allegiance or anything else with 'America' or 'God' in it."

Daniel choked back a laugh.

"I'm not a godless communist," he replied, certain that the fourth-grader did not know what one was. "I recited the Pledge every morning at my last school, and I say it every morning here."

The older boy's eyebrows furrowed as he worked through Daniel's logic.

"Okay," he said, drawing out the word as though he wasn't sure about it, "but how come your parents don't go to church?"

The answer jumped to the tip of Daniel's tongue.

"Because they're secularists," he replied. "They—"

A small voice in the back of his brain warned that saying his new family preferred reason to God was the same as saying they were godless. Daniel quickly formed a safer explanation.

"—they don't believe in churches."

He wiped a sweaty palm against his slacks and watch the trio gape at him in confusion.

_I'm smarter than all of them, but I'm still outnumbered three to one… Ted and Sammy are still playing tetherball… and there's Pete… he's across the yard talking to Mrs. Johnson—_

"Your parents don't believe in church?" the older boy asked.

Daniel smiled as though not believing in church was the most wonderful thing in the world.

"No, they don't."

The older boy glanced at his two supporters. The one on his left took it as a signal to add his thoughts.

"You have to go to church," he said, "if you believe in God."

Daniel frowned at the tag-teaming. Before he could form a reply, the other boy spoke up.

"My dad says you can worship God anywhere 'cause God's omnipotent."

Daniel clamped his teeth together to keep from laughing.

_You mean omnipresent—being everywhere at once… omnipotent means all-powerful…._

The ring leader turned around and sneered at his friend.

"C'mon, Jack. Weren't you listening to Sister at Catechism last week? She said God was being omniscient when he was everywhere."

Daniel bit into his cheek, hoping the pain would keep from blurting out that the definition for omniscient was 'all-knowing,' but the correction made Jack flush red to his ears.

"Omniscient," he repeated. "You're right. God's omniscient so you can worship him anywhere, even on the golf course like my dad does."

A whistle blast from Mrs. Williams signaled the end of recess. The older boy's supporters turned to sprint for the gate, Jack leading the pack, but Daniel's questioner fell into step with him.

"Hope you don't mind," he said. "My dad's really worried about communists. I figured you weren't one, but Dad wanted me to make sure."

Daniel faked a smile.

_I guess you've never been the new kid… and I hope my dad never asks me to do his dirty work for him…._

"S'okay," he replied. "If you want, you can tell your dad my dad said he believes in God. He told me he did."

The older boy's relieved grin told Daniel the matter had been put to rest. Later that afternoon, while he was copying his spelling words from the chalkboard, something else from the recess ordeal struck the boy.

_I called Mr. Sutterfield my dad… I said it out loud… people heard me say it… I guess that means it's real… _

At the bike rack after school, Daniel found out where he stood with Ted, Sammy, and Pete. Ted and Sammy grabbed their bikes, called "See ya!" to Daniel, and rode away, never mentioning the confrontation nor how they had ignored it.

_Figures… they're more Pete's friends than mine anyway…._

He had slung his book bag over the back of his seat and was getting ready to ride home alone when Pete ran up to him.

"I saw Billy Saunders and his friends come up to you at recess," Pete said as he pulled his Huffy from the rack. "I was gonna help, but Mrs. Johnson caught me running, and she blew her whistle at me. By the time she got done telling me to be more careful, recess was over."

Daniel saw Pete scowl at the memory before he continued.

"Next time anyone picks a fight with you, I'll be there—even if I have to run. Okay?"

Daniel grinned at the offer.

"Yeah, and me, too."

To his surprise, Pete did not laugh at his promise of support.

"Great," he said, "the two of us—we stick together."

And they did stick together, Daniel helping Pete with school work like his spelling words, Pete urging Daniel to stop reading and play outside. Pete even talked Mrs. Sutterfield into thinking about letting Daniel join Cub Scouts with him.

_I figured Mom would say no right away because they meet at the Methodist Church… but Pete told her I'd really like all the stuff Scouts do… he even made camping sound like fun… I don't know if Mom did it to humor Pete or not, but she brought it up at dinner… Dad said he'd think about it… after I went to bed that night, he came into talk to me about it… I told him it wasn't as much the camping and the badges as it was doing stuff with the other kids…._

"So," his father asked, "you want to join because Pete and the other boys are in the pack?"

Not wanting to sound so desperate to fit it, Daniel shook his head.

"No, I want to join because I'll learn stuff and it will help keep me busy and… and…"

… _and I never got to join anything when I was a foster kid…._

He paused to think up a different third reason only to see his dad smile at him.

"Is this important to you?" he asked.

Daniel nodded.

_It sure is… if you don't mind…._

Mr. Sutterfield's face assumed what Daniel recognized was his "thinking look," a half-smile with eyebrows raised above the top of his glasses.

"In that case," his father said, "you can join. I'll talk to Mr. Dodge about helping out. If nothing else, we can win the Pinewood Derby together."

"The what?"

A warm chuckle accompanied his dad's reply.

"It's a model car race where you build your own racer."

"Like slot-cars?"

"No, these race down a sloped track. Think gravity, not electricity."

"Oh. Cool. Thanks, Dad."

His father then wished him a "Good night" and Daniel snuggled down to read. From outside his room, at the top of the stairs, he heard his mother ask about the outcome of the discussion.

"He wants to be just like all the other boys," his dad told her, "and you know nothing says 'All-American Family' like a son in Cub Scouts."

His mother's response was drowned by her footsteps on the stairs, but his father's reply was audible.

_He said something about Little Octobers being a very bad idea… I figured it was a grown-up matter and none of my business… I still remembered what Miss Bellinger told me—if it's not my business, I leave it alone…._

Recess was not the only school activity that gave Daniel problems. His previous schools had been rural ones with limited resources. Ferdinand Public Schools prided itself on its cosmopolitan student activities, especially for physical education. This not only meant Cedar Street Elementary had its own gymnasium, but the school also provided off-site lessons and activities.

_For the first six weeks of school, PE meant swimming lessons… every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon, they put us on a school bus and took us to a Olympic-sized natatorium downtown… we changed in the locker rooms there and I had to leave my glasses in my locker... that meant the swimming instructor was a talking blur… if Pete hadn't duplicated the arm and leg motions for me, I never would have learned any of the swim strokes… as it was, I barely passed the treading water test on the final day, and I was the last to finish the Australian crawl lap test… diving from the side of the pool felt more like me falling on my face… and my dive off the diving board made everyone laugh, but I passed the class… with the lowest grade ever awarded, according to the swimming instructor…._

"Boy, I'm glad I'll never have to do that again," Daniel told Pete on the bus ride back to school.

"Could be worse," Pete replied. "My dad said he learned to swim when his brothers picked him up and tossed him in the creek behind their house. He said he swallowed at least a dozen minnows before he figured out how to get back to land again."

Daniel wrinkled his nose.

_Creeks… muddy, dark water… algae and slimy grass under the water… and fish… I liked fishing with Dad and Mr. Wren last weekend… sitting on chairs on the bank watching the water flowing past our bobbers… listening to them talk about stuff… I had so much fun, I didn't mind not catching any fish… that meant I didn't need to bait my hook but once… but I'm very happy no one suggested swimming… pools are so much cleaner and better…._

After the swimming, PE spent six weeks covering gymnastics and the Presidential Physical Fitness Test.

_Rope climbing… balance beam… parallel bars… I lost my glasses doing the required flip over the bar then I let go and fell on them… broke the frames in three places—too many to tape or glue back together even for temporary use… lucky for me, Mrs. Wamboldt packed my old pair when I moved here… the next day, Mom took me to the optometrist and bought me new glasses… she let me choose the frames… Mrs. Johnson said they made me look like Buddy Holly… then the PE teacher made me take them off for class so I wouldn't break them again… during the shuttle run, I missed where I was supposed to turn around because I couldn't see the line… and I messed up on the running broad jump because I couldn't see that line, either… I was so glad when we finished that section… until I found out the next class was basketball…._

The only things that kept Daniel from flunking PE were his determination and running laps.

_Before gym classes ended, we had to run three laps around the gym… the laps didn't require big muscles or height… there was nothing to trip over or run into... I would pick my pace and run… I usually came in first… sometimes, the teacher told the fat or klutzy kids to run laps instead of doing the exercises or activities… I never minded… it was like I'd found the only good part of PE…._

When Daniel considered his new life, even with its problems, he had no trouble deciding what he liked best.

_School's great—mostly… Pete's the best friend I ever had… I like being a Cub Scout and I like my bedroom and my bike and learning German with Mom and going to the library with her… but the best part is spending time with Dad… he doesn't care that I can't catch or throw… we do other stuff together… and we talk…._

Daniel and his dad were in the "radio shack" when one of those conversations occurred. Mr. Wren's funeral had been the Wednesday previous, and Daniel was drained from both grief and two nights' of intense nightmares that left the boy unwilling to go to bed.

_Dad suggested that, since it was Friday, I stay up so late that I couldn't keep from falling asleep… Mom said okay, but only if I stuck to quiet activities… for Dad, that meant seeing what he could find on the shortwave receiver…._

The two of them sat in the upstairs room. Mr. Sutterfield, still in his dress slacks but without his tie, was in a battered armchair while Daniel occupied a wooden office chair by the amateur radio station's receiver.

_We never powered up the equipment because we started talking about the trip we were going to take during the Christmas holidays to the Grand Canyon… Dad said he and Mom were thinking about buying a new car before we left… I put in a good word for Mustangs, but Dad is leaning toward a station wagon… we next talked about school and then the Thanksgiving dinner Mom was going to make next week—I assumed we'd skip Thanksgiving because the Pilgrims came to Plymouth Rock for freedom of religion, but Dad said there's never a good reason to miss a turkey dinner… he told me about Thanksgiving in the Army—one year, he had a great meal at Camp Edwards in Massachusetts, the next November, it was K-rations and stolen wine in the Vosges Mountains in France.…_

The Army stories led Daniel to remember a discussion Mr. Sutterfield had had with Mr. Wren during the family's September visit with the Wrens on their farm.

_They couldn't agree on which was better, the Marines or the Army… Mr. Wren would tell a story and Dad would try to top it… then Mr. Wren would claim the Marines could have done that with their eyes closed and their pants down… I could tell Dad and Mr. Wren were having fun with one another…it went on until it was time for us to drive home… at which point, Dad told Mr. Wren he hoped I'd never have the opportunity to tell such stories… Mr. Wren replied with 'Amen to that' then we said our goodbyes and left… it made my nose stuff up to remember that… I think Dad knew what I was thinking about..._

"Harold Wren was a good man," Mr. Sutterfield told the boy. "There's no shame in mourning his death."

Daniel snuffled hard before he replied, "But boys aren't supposed to—"

His father shook his head.

"Men cry, Daniel. It takes something big, like the death of their parents, or after their buddies are blown to bits in front of them—"

To Daniel's surprise, his father leaned forward so he could reach his hip pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and used it to dab behind his glasses.

"Or," he continued, his voice now gruff, "for the man who saved my son's life."

The grief in his father's voice loosened something inside Daniel. His snuffles became sobs as tears rolled down his cheeks. Mr. Sutterfield reached out to grab the arm of the boy's chair then he pulled him close and wrapped his arms around Daniel. He held the boy until his grief ran its course then he offered Daniel his handkerchief.

"Feel better?" Mr. Sutterfield asked while the boy blew his nose.

Daniel started in surprise as he realized that, yes—he did feel better.

_I'd been holding that in since Mom told me the news… I wanted to be brave and grown-up so Mr. Wren and my parents would be proud of me…._

When Daniel told his father that, Mr. Sutterfield shook his head and smiled at him.

"Being able to control your emotions is a powerful skill, Daniel, but it's sometimes okay to let it out. I doubt Mr. Wren would have wanted you to cry like a baby at his funeral. Here at home, with us—that's another story."

Daniel nodded then he blew his nose again.

"You know," his father told him, "Mr. Wren had a very high opinion of you. He told me so while you were in the kitchen trying to con Mrs. Wren into seconds on dessert."

Daniel settled back in his chair and grinned at the memory.

_Fresh apple pie with cheddar cheese on it… both slices were wonderful…._

"Yes," his father continued, "he said a boy with your brains and your maturity and your courage will grow up to do great things. He said your mom and I should be thankful we found you."

The way his father worded his last sentence made Daniel jump.

_Should? Does that mean they don't?_

The next words from Mr. Sutterfield put the boy's fears to rest.

"Of course, I call it luck—luck and Mr. Lukin's keen eye for talent."

Daniel leaned forward, curious about the unfamiliar name.

"Mr. Lukin?"

Mr. Sutterfield shrugged as though the name meant little to him.

"He's the man who suggested we adopt you," he told the boy. "When he learned we wanted a son, he remembered this very smart and polite young man he had seen while visiting his in-laws last Thanksgiving."

Daniel nodded as he remembered Norman Jeffries telling a similar story in his office that day Daniel had learned about the Sutterfields.

"Mr. Lukin was very impressed by you," his father continued. "He told us we needed to get you before someone else did. If I'm going to be thankful, my gratitude goes to Lukin for telling us about you, and Harold Wren for making sure you got to us safely."

Daniel nodded again. This time, his eyelids slid down with the motion of his head. He blinked, but they did not want to stay open.

"Looks like someone needs to be tucked in," he heard his father say, and he did not complain as he was helped into bed. Mr. Sutterfield smoothed the bedcovers over him then he checked the night lights.

"Good night, son," he said. Daniel murmured a reply then fell fast asleep.

Mr. Sutterfield took the back stairs down to the den, where his wife was reading on the sofa. She closed her book when he sat down at her side.

"Daniel's sound asleep," he told her. "Poor kid—he thought we'd get mad at him if he cried over Wren's death."

Mrs. Sutterfield made a _tsk_ sound then she said, "He is trying so hard. Mrs. Rayburn says it's only a matter of time until he bursts, but I'm not as certain. It's hard to imagine Daniel misbehaving."

Her husband slid an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze.

"He's a boy, Clara. He'll find a way. Maybe he'll put a book back upside-down or get a B in Arithmetic."

She chuckled at the notion, a laugh her husband shared with her.

"We got to talking," he then said, "and I mentioned Paul Lukin."

Mrs. Sutterfield stiffened at the mention of Lukin.

"Was that a good idea, Alan?"

"All I said was Paul was the one who suggested we adopt Daniel. I didn't go into details."

His wife pursed her lips to show her disapproval.

"I thought we decided to wait until the adoption was final. When Daniel is ours and cannot be taken from us, that is when we talk to him about Lukin and what we do for him."

Mr. Sutterfield raised his hands in surrender.

"I didn't get anywhere near that," he promised, "and I won't. All I said was that I was grateful Paul noticed the boy and Wren kept him safe for us. I'm sure that didn't do any harm."

His wife's frown softened. Mr. Sutterfield put his arm around her again then pulled her close.

"You fret too much, Klaruska. There's no need. Daniel is a great kid and everything will be fine. There's nothing to worry about."


	7. A Red-Letter Day: Part One

Author's Notes:

_Hams_: amateur radio operators

Numbers in Russian were being transmitted on 11170 kHz as of earlier this year. I don't know if this frequency was in use during the 1960s.

_Ja, du wirst unser Sohn an diesem Tag werden.: _This should be "Yes, you will become our son on that day." (thanks to Anna for the correction)

The National Trapshooters Association is fictitious as are the two books mentioned in this chapter. The Marine Corps 3rd Infantry Division is real.

March & April 1967  
>Day -12,701 through -12,657<p>

It was Saturday morning at the Sutterfields' house, and the family was leaving to run errands.

"Daniel," his father called from the bottom of the house's back stairs. "We're ready to go—oh, and don't forget your bank book."

In his bedroom, Daniel paused to look at small blue passbook in his hand.

_If I forgot it, I couldn't deposit my money… Dad opened a savings account for me in January… he put ten dollars in and the rest of it I've saved—I get a dollar per week in allowance plus I can earn another dollar each week by working for Dad…._

The boy's job was a simple one: Mondays and Thursdays, between the hours of five and six p.m., Daniel was to listen to 11170 kHz on his father's shortwave radio. He could read or do homework while listening but, if he heard a specific snippet from Johann Strauss' _Grillenbanner _Waltz, the boy had to stop his reading and transcribe whatever came after the music ceased.

_It's always numbers in English spoken by a woman with a Russian accent… so far, I've only had to write anything down two times, but Dad still pays me fifty cents for every hour I listen…._

When asked what the numbers were and why they were being transmitted, Mr. Sutterfield gave Daniel an intriguing explanation.

_Dad told me they probably were messages to spies… he said there are dozens of these stations around the world transmitting strings of numbers separated by music or a recorded noise like a buzzer or a gong… the spy who is supposed to get the coded message has a special key called a one-time pad—it's made up of pages of numbers, one page per message… those numbers are added to the transmitted numbers then the spy uses a conversion table to find out what letters or words the numbers represent… without the one-time pad and the table, it's almost impossible to break the code…._

"Then why am I writing down the numbers if we can't figure out what they mean?" he had asked.

"Three reasons," Mr. Sutterfield had replied as he ticked them off on his fingers. "One, if you have enough examples of how a code is used, sometimes you can break it. It's called the brute force method. Two, it's one of the things hams do. Three, the _Grillenbanner _Waltzis your mother's favorite. There's no way I can ignore its use here—now, can I?"

His dad grinned as he gave Daniel the last reason. The boy smiled back.

_Grillenbanner means 'Banisher of Gloom…' Mom often hums it while she's folding clothes or ironing… no wonder it caught Dad's attention…._

At the Bank of Ferdinand's Motor Branch, Daniel handed his passbook to the man at the drive-up window with a one-dollar bill and two quarters.

_I'm keeping fifty cents for when Pete and I stop to buy candy on the way home from school…._

The teller returned the passbook with Daniel's deposit and new balance printed on the first page. While Mr. Sutterfield drove away, Daniel admired his account balance.

_Twenty-five dollars and twenty-five cents… I've never had so much money before… and the bank pays interest on the balance… four and a quarter percent per annum… my money makes me money… if I had a million dollars in the bank, I would earn over forty-three thousand dollars a year in interest… that's how millionaires get rich—they invest their money in banks and preferred and common stocks… they also buy companies then investing the profits those companies make in other companies… I've been reading about investing at the library—Fortune and Forbes magazines, treatises on the stock and futures markets, and biographies about men like Andrew Carnegie, the steel magnate who built our library, and Thomas Watson, who founded IBM, and Douglas McKenna, who started McKenna Aerospace where Dad works… Mom isn't too thrilled about these men… she says they are capitalists—greedy and selfish… when I said that I wanted to own corporations when I grew up, she told me I could do better than that… but what's better than being rich and powerful?_

The last day of March was a half-day for teacher meetings so Daniel arrived home at twelve-thirty. When he entered the kitchen, his lunch was on the table…

_Peanut butter and grape jam sandwich, applesauce, and milk… my favorite…._

… but his mother stopped him before he could sit down.

"Look at the calendar," she told him.

Daniel detoured to the counter where the wall calendar hung above the telephone. April's page was displayed and the eighteenth, a Tuesday, had been circled in red. Inside the circle, in his mother's precise writing, was the notation "Courthouse-11 a.m."

The boy gaped at the date.

_That's has to be my adoption date… Mrs. Rayburn must have called and told Mom… that's the day when the judge grants a decree of adoption and I become a Sutterfield forever…._

His throat tightened and his eyes went moist and the corners of his mouth curved up as high as they could go.

"That's," he stuttered, "that's the day—"

"_Ja, du wirst unser Sohn an diesem Tag werden,"_ she said, "although you have been our son from the moment Mrs. Rayburn showed me your photo."

Daniel looked her and saw she was doing the same thing he was.

_We even snuffled in unison… then we reached for our handkerchiefs at the same time…that made us both laugh…._

As soon as her nose was blown, his mother said, "Your father will arrange to have that day off from work, and I will tell your teacher that you will be absent."

Mrs. Sutterfield made a note on the calendar to call the school office.

"Mrs. Rayburn also said," she continued, "that Miss Bellinger asked to be informed so she could be with us. You should write her with the date and time, and also ask if she would like to have lunch with us afterward to celebrate."

_Miss Bellinger wants to be there? Okay!_

Since he couldn't smile any wider, Daniel accepted the assignment with a nod.

"And there came a package for you from the UPS delivery. I put it on your desk. As soon as you finish your lunch, you may open it."

Daniel bolted down his lunch then he trotted up the back stairs to his room. The package on his desk was wrapped in craft paper and tied with package string.

_It's from Mrs. Wren…._

Inside, he found a note from the old woman, two paperback books, and a dark green flat box on which the letters NTA were printed in gold. Daniel sat down on the edge of his bed, the box and its contents beside him, to read the letter.

_Dear Daniel,_

_Like I told you I was planning to when you called last month, I sold our farm to the Papperts who own the farm north of us. They plan to run dairy cows, which is fine with me although I know Harold would be horrified at the thought of good crop land being left unplanted._

_Next week, I'm moving to Arizona to live with my daughter Susan and her husband Bob. They're buying a new house with a mother-in-law suite—that means part of the house has its own kitchen and bath, living room, and front door. I've seen photos and it's very nice. As much as I hate the idea of leaving my home, I will not miss the Illinois winters—not at all._

_I had the auctioneers out to sell the farm equipment and the household items that I won't be taking with me. Before the sale, I picked out two of Harold's books for you. He wasn't a reader like you are, but these were written by Marine buddies of his. One is about being a drill instructor between the wars; the other is about the unit Harold served in during World War I. I thought you might like to find out if the stories he told you and your dad are true or not._

_I'm keeping Harold's military medals and other awards for our grandchildren, but he once said he thought you would value the enclosed award more than they would so I'm sending it to you with the books._

The letter concluded with Mrs. Wren's new address and her hope that the letter found Daniel and his parents in good health and spirits. The boy set it aside to look at the books.

'_Paris Island Recruits and the Men who Made them Marines' and 'The Rock of the Marne: the Third Infantry Division, A History'… I'll have to read these soonest…._

Daniel set the two books on his nightstand then he lifted the lid on the box. Inside, he saw a gold medal, its face engraved with crossed shotguns, a target, and the initials "NTA." Around the design were the words "Grand American World Trapshooting Championship."

_I know what this is… it's for the shotgun competition that Mr. Wren won… he showed it to me when we went to visit him… Mrs. Wren told me he beat almost one thousand shooters—some of them veterans fresh from their military service… I wish I'd known about how good he was that day… I wouldn't have been so scared…._

The boy turned the medal over. The obverse read:

Singles Champion  
>Harold Wren<br>August, 1948

_All I wanted that day was someone to help me… I got a World Champion… every time I think about that, I feel honored and humble… it's sort of strange to mix those two together, but that's how it makes me feel…._

From the kitchen , Daniel heard his mother call his name. He put the medal back in its box then he ran to the top of the back stairs.

"Yes, Mom?"

"I need to run an errand for your father. Will you be okay while I am away?"

"Yes, Mom."

"This is a good time for you to write Miss Bellinger about your adoption date. If you finish by two o'clock, you will be in time for the mailman."

"Should I write Mrs. Wren, too?" he asked. "That package was from her. She sent me some books and a medal that was Mr. Wren's."

"That was very generous of her. Yes, write her also. I should be back before three o'clock. Be good, son."

Daniel heard the back door close and lock then he heard the sound of her VW starting.

_Mom is so careful… she always locks the doors… when she's gone, I have to stay at home or in the yard… so much for going bike-riding with Pete… at least I can have him over—once I get those letters written…._

He opened his desk drawer and took out a pack of stationery and an address book that he had been given for Christmas.

The address book has the names and addresses of Miss Bellinger and some of my foster parents… I'll have to put Mrs. Wren's new address in here, too….

The letter writing went quickly. Daniel folded each note then sealed them in their envelopes before addressing them.

_Stamps… I need stamps to mail them…._

He checked his wristwatch as he stepped into the hall.

_One-thirty-five… and Mom's not going to get home by the time the mailman comes… Mom has stamps in her desk… but I'm not supposed to go in their room without permission…._

Daniel could see his mother's roll-top desk through the open master bedroom doorway. The desk's cover was rolled up as though inviting him to take what he needed.

_Mom said to get these letters in today's mail… so I think that means I can get the stamps… just this once, anyway…._

After an instinctive glance around to make sure no one was watching, Daniel entered the bedroom then he went to the roll-top desk. On it, a Remington manual typewriter sat in the center; to its left was a stack of bills under a glass globe paperweight from the family's trip to the Grand Canyon.

Daniel ignored the papers under the snow globe.

_I promised Miss Bellinger I would not spy… and I haven't—not once… but I don't see any stamps… maybe they're in a drawer… it's not spying if I have a reason to open drawers… there's at least two dozen little drawers above the desktop… that's not counting the big drawers on the sides of the desk…._

Daniel took a deep breath and started opening drawers, beginning with the topmost on the left side of the desk's back and working his way across.

_Old keys… No. 2 pencils… typewriter ribbons… correction fluid… paper clips… ball point pens… bobby pins… erasers… pads of paper… a glasses cleaning kit…._

The boy checked his watch.

_Ten minutes to two… I have to hurry things up…._

Moving back to the left side, Daniel grabbed the handles of the pair of drawers on the lower row and opened both of them.

_Empty… and a box of staples…._

The two drawers below them, also opened in tandem, held no stamps.

"Shoot," he said with annoyance, "where does Mom keep her stamps?"

The center column of drawers was also in pairs. Daniel grabbed the pulls of the topmost two, one in each hand, and tugged. To his surprise, not only did the two drawers open, but a solid piece of carved oak above them also slid forward to become a drawer one inch deep and six inches wide.

_Wow… a secret compartment… and there's a folder of stamps in the drawer under it…._

He quickly tore two stamps out and affixed them to his envelopes then he ran down the front stairs, unlocked the front door, and dashed outside.

_There's the mailman—just turning up our walk… that was close…._

Daniel met him at the base of the porch stairs to hand him the letters, accepting the family's mail in return. He then headed inside, locking the front door behind him.

_I'd better put Mom's desk back together in case she minds me getting those stamps…._

Back in his parent's bedroom, the opened secret compartment drew his attention.

_It can't hurt to look in it… I mean—what could Mom want to hide? _

He leaned over the typewriter and peered into the compartment. Inside was a strip of paper covered with columns of numbers and folded like a fan. Under the paper, he saw part of a card on which was printed a grid of numbers and letters. Curiosity impelled him to pick up both items. The strip of paper unfolded like a Slinky and fell from his hand to the desktop. Daniel left it there while he examined the card.

_Letters, numbers, punctuation—each paired with a number… it's like a conversion table… the top row is A 1,E 2, I 3, N 4, O 5, and R 6—the most commonly used letters in English…_

Daniel flipped the card over to see four columns of words and phrases in alphabetic order, each word paired with a three-digit number.

_Agent 055, Documents 280, Rendezvous 685, Repeat Your Message From 974—those are spy words… does that makes this—_

He picked up the fanfold paper.

—_a one-time pad like Dad told me about?_

He scanned through the folds of the paper and saw that each one was different from the rest. Daniel's throat went dry and his breath quickened.

_This is the key to a spy code—just like Dad described it to me… a secret code hidden in a secret compartment…._

He tossed the card and the paper into the compartment and slammed the three open drawers shut then he bolted for the door. As soon as he was in the hall, Daniel spun around to stare back at the desk.

_Only spies have spy codes—Dad said so… sure, Dad knows about numbers stations, but he's a licensed ham radio operator and they know about that sort of stuff… that doesn't make him a spy…_

The boy drew in a deep breath in an effort to calm himself down so he could think.

_There has to be another explanation… like… like… like Dad has that key and code pad because he's interested in codes… it's something Dad collected… yeah, that makes sense… I'm sure that's what it is… I think I'm sure… if I'm so sure, why does my stomach hurt?_

Daniel swallowed hard against his queasiness.

_Maybe I'm not sure… but I know how to prove if it's true or not… the next time the Grillenbanner Waltz plays, I'll take the numbers that follow it and I use that code pad and card to decipher it… if it doesn't work—if I get gibberish—then everything's okay… if I get a readable message—but I won't... Mom and Dad aren't spies… they can't be… it will be gibberish… it has to be…._

For the next ten days, Daniel hid his uneasiness using the methods he had learned as a foster kid.

_I know how to pretend… I used to pretend I liked my foster families… that I didn't miss my mom and grandma… that I didn't want to vomit every time Mr. Edison coughed up his phlegm… no one ever knew what I was thinking… right now, I'm pretending nothing's wrong… no one knows about my suspicions… not Mom & Dad… not Pete… not Mrs. Rayburn… no one…._

On both Tuesday and Friday, he listened to his father's shortwave for the required hour without hearing his mother's favorite waltz.

_Do they play that music because Mom likes it or does she like it because it's important spy music—and that's a stupid question because my parents aren't spies…._

Saturday's mail brought a letter from Miss Bellinger accepting Daniel's invitation to celebrate his adoption. The mere sight of her name on the envelope made his stomach knot.

_I was spying when I looked in that compartment… I wasn't supposed to be in their bedroom…I promised her I'd be a good son and always obey my parents… if I had listened to Miss Bellinger, none of this would have happened… that makes it my fault—but I have to pretend there's nothing wrong… everything is fine…._

The next Tuesday, the boy turned on his father's receiver and set it to 11170 kHz. While he did his homework, the Russian woman recited her English numbers. A break in the recitation caught his attention. The momentary silence was followed by the hiss of a phonograph needle on a empty groove then the first notes of the _Grillenbanner_ Waltz played through the speaker.

Daniel jerked upright and began to shake but, when the string of numbers began to be said, he gripped his pencil hard and wrote all of them in large numerals across a clean sheet of notebook paper. When the woman finished her recitation and the transmission went silent, he tore out the paper and copied the numbers on a fresh sheet then set that page on the shelf over the receiver.

_Dad gets that one… the first one is mine… I hope the message is gibberish… it's got to be gibberish…._

He dashed from the radio shack to his parents' bedroom.

"Daniel," he heard his mother call from the kitchen. "No running in the house."

He skidded to a stop outside his own room.

"Sorry, Mom."

The rest of his trip to the desk was done on tip-toe. It took only a moment to open the secret compartment and remove the fanfold strip of paper and the conversion key. Daniel carried the papers to his desk and began the process of decoding the message, working the method out from what he remembered from his father's description from three months before plus his own innate understanding of how systems work.

_First, I think I have to compare the first number transmitted to the first number on the one-time pad to see if it's really meant for this code pad… and they match—06785…._

He swallowed hard against the bile in his throat.

_Next, ignore the first number because it's not part of the message… add the other numbers on the pad to the transmitted numbers… it has to be addition because subtracting would leave me with some negative numbers…._

The results stretched across his notebook page: 48890 78907 95852 72901 75217 29104 72188 8295.

_Then, start matching the numbers to the conversion table… quickly, because Dad will come home any time now… but there's not 48 on the card—oh, yeah…._

He flipped it over and checked the list of words.

_488 is Meeting… and there is no 907 so the next one must be a letter…._

He flipped the card again.

_90 means 'space' and 78 is an L… 79 is a M… there is no 58, but 5 is an O… and 85 is a V… 2 is an E.. and 72 is a D…._

Quickly, without pausing to think about the letters he was discovering, Daniel worked his way through the cipher. He was writing down the last letter when he heard the back door open then his mother's voice as she greeted her husband.

Daniel grabbed the notebook paper and shoved it into his desk drawer, noting as he did its message…

…_Meeting L moved ahead 4 days…._

… then he tip-toed as fast as possible to the roll-top desk and returned the card and the code pad. As soon as the secret compartment was closed, he ran to the bathroom and shut the door behind him. A firm grip on the edge of the sink held him upright against the nausea that surged through him.

_That message made sense… it's a real message… those numbers really are meant for Dad… I found a real one-time pad… and that means my parents really are—_

A sharp rap on the hall door broke into the boy's thoughts.

"Daniel," he heard his father say, "your mother just warned you about running in the house."

_Quick… think of an excuse… and sound normal…._

To stall for time, Daniel reached out and flushed the toilet.

_Just like I had to go—yeah, that will work… now, to wash my hands…._

He twisted the faucet handle then he called out over the dual sounds of rushing water.

"I'm sorry, Dad. That waltz you asked me to listen for started to play right when I had to use the bathroom. I wrote the numbers down then I had to—"

Daniel heard his father chuckle.

"It's okay, son. Rules can be broken in an emergency. When you're finished washing up, come down for supper."

Daniel never was certain how he got through that meal with his parents. One big help was that his mother served meatloaf, a favorite of Mr. Sutterfield's, but not of Daniel's.

_I was so scared, I was sure I'd throw up anything I ate… so I took a very small helping and shoved it around my plate and let my parents do all the talking…._

After dinner, Daniel's father excused himself and went upstairs. Daniel helped his mother with the dishes while he pictured his father working to decipher his spy message.

_Don't act worried… don't think about if I put the things back correctly… pretend everything's okay…._

Once the dishes were dried, Daniel told his mother he was heading into the parlor to read his German assignment.

_Karl Marx's Das Kapital… Mom said it would explain why growing up to be a business magnate was a horrible idea… but I know Mr. Marx also wrote the Communist Manifesto.. Mom has that one, too…._

With the book open in his hands, Daniel slouched low behind it and tried to think.

_That message made sense… which means my parents are spies… or Dad is a spy and Mom hides his spy stuff for him… or Dad is a spy and Mom doesn't know—yeah, right… Mom knows everything… whatever it is, one or both of them are spies… and I guess that makes them Communists, too… that's the only kind of spy I've heard of… Billy Saunders called my parents godless Communists and I stuck up for them… but I was wrong… boy, was I wrong…._

Hidden behind _Das Kapital,_ Daniel worked through his options. The first one, calling the FBI, the boy dismissed right away.

_If they're spies, I ought to turn them in… but I can't… not after everything they've done for me… I could call Mrs. Rayburn and tell her I don't want to be adopted, but I'd have to give her a good reason—like my parents are worse than the Nielsens and the Shipfords combined… except it's not true… they're great parents… the very best… I couldn't ask for better ones… I don't want better ones… I want them…._

That left Daniel only two options.

_I can do nothing… just keep pretending nothing's wrong… wait for Dad or Mom to say something about the numbers… I'd be lying to my parents, but it would work… I'm good at fooling people... I guess they're good at fooling people, too … they've been fooling me ever since I moved here…._

That thought made Daniel's stomach hurt so badly that he lay the book down to cross his arms over it.

_I can tell them I know… but I'm still a foster kid… so they can send me back… maybe I should wait until the judge grants the adoption decree and I'm a Sutterfield forever before I say anything… it's only one more week—but, if my parents have been lying to me, do I really want to their son?_

The boy mulled the two options as he tried to decide.

_Pete would think this was cool… Miss Bellinger would say it's my fault for snooping—and it sort of is… if I hadn't looked in that secret compartment, I wouldn't know anything was wrong… I bet Mr. Wren would call the FBI… but only after he made sure of his facts… he'd walk right up to my parents and ask them straight-out: Are you spying on this country? That's what Mr. Wren would have done… I'll bet that what he would expect me to do… he said I was brave… so that's what I'm going to do…._


	8. A Red-Letter Day: Part Two

Author's Notes (can be skipped if you'd prefer)

Seconal® is trademarked; it's also a barbiturate widely prescribed during the 1940s through 1970s for anxiety and insomnia

_Sie werden unser Sohn töten und ich werde ihn nie wiedersehen__: _They will take away our son and I will never see him again_ (again, if I'm wrong, please correct me)_

_Ix-nay: _Pig Latin for_ nix, _which is slang and means"delete, drop, don't use"

_Napoleon Solo: _main character in the "Man from U.N.C.L.E." TV spy drama

_Ilya Kuryakin: _Solo's partner, played by David McCallum.

_phones hidden in our shoes: _reference to "Get Smart", a TV comedy about a bungling spy

_Steyr 50:_ also known as the Steyr Baby, a two-door car with seating for four ( /steyr-50-baby-1936)

_Bezirk Mistelbach_: a district in Austria, also known as Lower Austria

_KPÖ_: Communist Party of Austria_ (__Kommunistische Partei Österreichs_)

_dummer Esel: _the only German word I ever heard my grandmother say

_Masher:_ a man who forces his unwanted attentions on a woman

_Standesamt_: Vital Statistics Office, where civil marriage ceremonies are performed

The actual paperwork and process of finalizing an adoption is streamlined for the purposes of this story.

Residence of the Sutterfield Family  
>April 1967<br>Day -12,657 through -12,650

Daniel put _Das Kapital _back on its shelf then he went to his room to get the deciphered message. With it in-hand, he went down the back stairs to the family room, where his parents were on the couch reading and listening to music from a record on the stereo.

_Dixieland jazz… I'm really glad it's not Strauss waltzes… now, to make Mr. Wren proud of me… everything is going to come out okay… I hope…._

Both adults lowered their books and looked up at Daniel's approach.

"Dad, Mom," he told them as he handed the notebook paper to his father, "I need to talk to you."

"Let me guess," Mr. Sutterfield said as he reached for the paper. "You earned an B-plus on your schoolwork so your teacher wants us in for a parent—oh."

Daniel watched his father stare at the message for a moment then he showed it to his wife. Her eyes went wide behind her glasses and her lips formed the same "Oh."

_I wanted them to say something… something like 'You discovered our secret,' or maybe 'Now we have to kill you,' but all Mom and Dad did was stare at the paper… finally, Dad's mouth twitched like he was trying to smile…._

"You figured this out all by yourself?" Mr. Sutterfield asked.

The boy nodded.

"How?"

Daniel fixed his attention on his father as he recounted his finding the one-time pad and card in the desk.

"But I didn't give you enough information to decipher that code," his father said.

The boy shook his head.

"You told me enough. The rest was obvious. There's no other way it could work."

Mr. Sutterfield let out a long, slow sigh as he peered at Daniel then he tried another smile.

"That's very clever of you, son."

Daniel winced. His father sounded just like Mrs. Busby, the foster mom who thought Daniel wanted to murder her.

_Dad's scared… this is bad… really bad…._

His father then turned to face his wife.

"Clara, isn't it clever of him?"

The boy switched his attention to his mother.

_Mom had gone white—even her lips were pale… and she was staring right at me, but I don't think she saw me…._

"Clara?"

His father scooted across the sofa until he was at her side then he put his arm around her.

"Clara, it's okay," he said. "It's all right."

His mother shook her head so hard a pin holding her braids flew away to hit the wall behind her.

"_Nein, nein,"_ she moaned, "_sie werden unser Sohn töten und ich werde ihn nie wiedersehen—__"_

_That's when Mom started trembling and panting like she was going to be sick… her next words were in English, but they were so faint, I could barely hear them…._

"—and then they will—they will—"

His father pulled her close to him and wrapped her in a bear hug.

"No, Clara, they won't," he told her. "Not now, not here, not ever again."

_But Dad's words didn't help… Mom kept shaking like I did after a nightmare…._

His father's voice broke through the boy's thoughts.

"Daniel, middle shelf of the cabinet where we keep your vitamins—there's a bottle of pills with Mom's name on them. Will you bring me one of them with a glass of water?"

He stammered out a "Yes, sir" then he ran for the kitchen. The use of a chair got him to the shelf, where he found a prescription bottle behind a bottle of aspirin. Daniel noted the name of the medicine—_Seconal_—as he opened the bottle then shook one of the red capsules into his hand.

With the pill and a tumbler of water from the tap in-hand, he hurried back to his parents. His father nodded his thanks then he patiently coaxed his wife into taking the pill from Daniel's hand then sipping some of the water.

_After she swallowed the pill, Mom rested her head on Dad's shoulder… it took a long time, but she finally stopped shaking and breathing so hard… that's when Dad suggested she stretch out and get comfortable… I ran to get an afghan from the linen closet… by the time we got Mom covered, she was asleep… Dad stood by the couch looking down at her… then he leaned over and began to stroke her hair… all I could do was stand there… I didn't know what was wrong with Mom or if it could be fixed…._

"Is Mom okay?" he asked, the question whispered from fear its answer would be "No."

His father straightened then he turned to face Daniel.

"She will be," he replied, "when she wakes up. The medicine and a night's sleep always help."

Daniel slid one step closer to his father. His questions and fears roiled in his head, all so jumbled together that none of them could be spoken aloud. Mr. Sutterfield laid a gentle hand on Daniel's shoulder then he pointed toward the kitchen

"How about we go sit down where we won't disturb Mom?"

Daniel followed his father into the kitchen then he pulled his chair from the kitchen table while Mr. Sutterfield went to the cabinet where the pots and pan were stored.

"Feel like some hot chocolate?" he asked as he set a pan on the stove.

The queasy feeling in his stomach made Daniel shake his head.

"That's okay. I don't want any, either."

With the pan left on the cold stove, Mr. Sutterfield took his usual seat at the head of the table.

_Dad can see Mom from his chair… he spent a couple seconds looking at her… then he turned to me and tried to smile… it didn't work… he's still looks as scared as I feel… Mrs. Busby was scared of me and she sent me back… I didn't do anything to her and she sent me back… I don't want to be sent back… I want to stay here… but I just made Mom have a fit and I proved they are spies… maybe getting sent back is the best thing that can happen to me…._

Daniel slid into his chair. His father then folded his hands on the table and he drew in a deep breath. The boy braced himself.

"I guess," his father said, "I'd better start with the elephant in the room. That message you decoded—well, it was meant for your mother and me. We're both foreign agents."

The bald fact, so calmly confirmed, robbed Daniel of words. He sat gape-mouthed, staring at his father, until his mouth managed to form a question.

"Communist foreign agents?"

Mr. Sutterfield nodded.

"We work for the Committee for State Security's First Chief Directorate. It's also known as the Foreign Operations office of the KGB."

The acronym was like a kick to Daniel's gut.

_KGB? They're the ultimate bad guys… they kill... they torture… they steal state secrets… and my dad's sitting there acting like it's nothing…._

An odd thought started to form in the back of Daniel's head.

_Maybe it is nothing… after all, Dad said 'foreign agent…' he didn't say 'spy….'_

"What," he stammered, "do you do for the KGB?"

"Ix-nay on the KGB, son," his father corrected him. "Always use euphemisms. Saying 'KGB' will bring the FBI to your door in no time, but nobody's ears prick up if they hear you talk about 'the Committee.'"

Daniel accepted the correction by rewording his question. His father smiled his approval.

"I collect intelligence and send it on to my superiors. Mostly, it's newspaper clippings, reports on local commerce and politics, your mother's and my interpretations of regional and national events. Sometimes, I help other agents send their information in or I get new instructions to them. We also keep maintain bank accounts, safe deposit boxes, post office boxes—whatever is needed to keep another agent's cover active and valid."

Daniel let out a sigh of relief.

_That sounds really dull—nothing like what spies do on TV or in movies and books…._

"I suppose it sounds boring," his father continued, "if your mental image of a spy is James Bond or Napoleon Solo, but real life agents are mostly paper-pushers—no fancy cars, no deadly weapons, no phones hidden in our shoes."

The boy smiled at the reference.

_Yeah, Dad looks nothing like Maxwell Smart or Napoleon Solo… maybe Ilya Kuryakin, but only if Ilya wore horn-rimmed glasses and his hair was falling out…._

The bit of humor was enough to break Daniel's mental logjam. Questions began to tumble from him.

"How did you decide to do this? Have you been doing it a long time? Were you recruited or did you volunteer? Do they pay you?"

He watched his father chuckle at his stream of questions as they kept coming.

"How do you get your instructions? Why do the Soviets care about our town's politics and news? Does Mom—"

Mentioning his mother reminded Daniel of her recent fit. He twisted to see if she was still asleep then he swallowed hard against the dread that filled him.

"Did something happen to Mom because she's a foreign agent?"

Mr. Sutterfield's expression lost all its good humor. Daniel watched him glance at his wife then turn his attention back to his son.

"No," he replied, "it's more like she's a foreign agent because of what happened to her."

"Oh."

Daniel drew the single syllable out while he considered his father's answer.

_What happened to Mom? Why did she say I'd be taken away and never seen again when Dad's acting like all this is nothing special… who are the "they" that Mom's so scared of?_

The boy's confusion drew Mr. Sutterfield's hand to his shoulder.

"Maybe," his father said, "I should start at the beginning…."

Flashback:  
>April 3, 1938<br>Day – 23257  
>Twenty kilometers NE of Vienna, Austria<p>

To Clara Holzer, a sixteen-year-old girl crowded next to her two brothers in the back seat of a borrowed Steyr 50, that day's drive felt almost like a summer excursion.

_Except the season is wrong… I'm wearing my winter coat… I should be in school and my brothers at university… my mother should be teaching in her classroom, and my father should be at his teller's window at the bank … this isn't a vacation—we are fleeing Vienna because my parents were members of the outlawed __KPÖ__who opposed the May Constitution and the Austro-Fascist state it created… now that Germany has annexed our country, we all are in danger: Papa, Mama, Karl, Willi, and me… the plan is to get over the border at Mikulov to meet with people Papa knows in Poland… he hopes to get us to the Ukraine with their help… Mama is from there…._

Twenty kilometers outside Vienna, their progress was halted by a line of stopped vehicles. At the head of the line, Clara could see a portable barricade, its bar blocking the road, and a dozen Germans in uniform. The officers had pistols in holsters at their side; the soldiers had rifles slung on their shoulders. Clara's heart froze in her chest, but her father shook his head as though merely annoyed at the checkpoint.

"Remember," he warned his family, "we are the Altmanns, and we are driving to our farm in Bezirk Mistelbachbecause we graciously lent our apartment to the National Socialist Party. Checkpoints are now a normal part of our lives. Answer any questions asked, and we soon will be on our way."

Clara nodded, as did her two older brothers, but she saw her mother frown at the instructions.

"The children know this, Otto. If we are caught, it will be due to something we could not foresee, not because of them."

The gentle chiding brought a smile to her father's lips.

_Mama always corrects Papa… it's how she shows she cares for him…._

"Ida," he replied, "if we could foresee problems, we would plan for them. As it is, we must trust our luck."

Clara sat back in her seat and watched the woodlands that lined the road as the car inched forward. Once it was at the checkpoint, a German lieutenant, his moustache still wispy with youth, recited his questions with bored disinterest.

_Who are you? Who is travelling with you? Where did you come from and where are you going? What is your reason for travel today?_

Herr "Altmann" answered the officer's questions with no sign of ill humor or anxiety. When asked, Clara handed her forged ID card to her father for examination by the officer.

_The man handed it back with a smile at me… I dropped my gaze and pretended I was blushing—instead, I was hiding my fear…my father and mother had planned our escape carefully, but I already knew better than to trust our luck… if we truly were lucky, we would not have to run…._

The officer next asked for her brothers' identification. Karl was giving his up for examination when Clara noticed that a soldier at the barricade was staring through the windshield at her family. He held his stance for a moment then he turned to the sergeant next to him and said something.

Clara whispered to her brothers, "Do you know that soldier who is talking?"

Willi shook his head, but Karl's breath caught in his throat.

"Leopold Renner," he whispered back. "We both were in Professor's Grotke's ancient philosophy class last term. Renner is a _dummer Esel_."

"A dumb ass who is reporting us," Willi whispered. "Father, we need to—"

The sergeant snapped an order to his men, who scrambled to aim their rifles at the Steyr. Both Clara's parents unlatched their doors, but the lieutenant drew his sidearm too quickly, trapping them in the little car.

_We were ordered out… told to stand by the side of the road while our luggage was searched… they did not find proof we were the Holzer family, but the soldier's word was enough… the sergeant used a field telephone to call for transportation… they separated us into two groups, me with my parents… my brothers held at gunpoint on the other side of the road… we were ordered to keep silent… the officers were too far away to hear their conversation, but I knew what it was… they were congratulating each other for capturing us…._

An hour passed before an army truck arrived at the checkpoint. Its driver kept its engine idling as the five Holzers were herded to its rear.

_The soldiers made my brothers climb into the truck first… then my parents… I helped Papa assist Mama as she struggled onto the tailgate and into the truck… then I helped my father… when I grabbed the frame to climb up, the lieutenant shouted at me to stop…._

"Your parents are criminals," he told Clara, "and your brothers are strong and will make fine workers, but you are too beautiful for such a fate."

He pointed to the soldiers guarding the barricade. Clara turned her back on her family to see why he was pointing.

_He was indicating the soldier who told on us…._

"Trooper Renner," the officer continued, "deserves a reward for his efforts, don't you think?"

Clara watched Renner's expression shift from surprise to a truly salacious grin that seem to bore through the coat she was wearing. She shrank back, wrapping her arms around her body to shield herself from his attention.

"Take them away!"

The truck's engine roared, its noise drowning all but one of her family's cries.

_Every time I dream of Renner—of him grinning at me.. of him handing his rifle to the man next to him … of him coming toward me… I heard Mama screaming her pet name for me… Klaruska! But I can't come to her call… I can only stand there, my arms wrapped around my coat… I can only shake with fear as Renner puts his hand on my back and shoves me towards the woods…. _

Sutterfield Kitchen  
>April 1967<p>

Mr. Sutterfield spared his son the gory details, but Daniel caught the gist of the outcome.

_They hurt Mom the way that man wanted to hurt Miss Bellinger… later, I found out that's why my parents didn't have kids of their own… because Mom couldn't anymore… and it's why Mom was so scared about never seeing me again … she never saw her family again… her parents died in an internment camp… her brother Willi died when his work camp was accidentally bombed by the British... and Karl was forced to clear mine fields…._

"Your mom was left at the side of the road when they were finished," his father continued. "She walked the twenty klicks back to Vienna then she hid with family friends until she hooked up with the Communist resistance. She spent the war working with them."

"Wow."

"Wow is right. Your mom is a strong and very resourceful woman."

The pride in his father's voice made Daniel nod in agreement.

"Dad, do you have any family?"

His father's eyebrows shot up at the question.

"Beside you and Mom? No, not living ones. My mom died when I was in grade school; my dad while I was in boot camp. My dad and me moved around a lot so I lost track of whatever kin I might have had."

_I found out later Dad's dad was an organizer for the Wobblies—the Industrial Workers of the World… Wobblies believe workers should elect their supervisors and get shares of the profits instead of wages… which leaves nothing for the man who founded the company… who came up with the idea or the product then risked his money and put his time and effort into making it successful… trade unions seem sort of selfish to me… but it does prove both my parents' families were socialists… I wonder if Dad and Mom were going to tell me that fact before or after they got around to telling me they are spi—foreign agents…._

The boy put that question aside. _Sometimes, if I got a foster parent talking, I'd find out stuff I wouldn't have learned if I asked about it directly… since Dad was willing to talk about family history, I was happy to let him…._Daniel put his elbows on the table—a no-no during meals, then he rested his chin on his hands.

"Dad," he said, "Mr. Jeffries at the Family Services office told me you met Mom in Vienna after the war."

The prompt for more info earned a nod from Mr. Sutterfield.

"That's right. I was part of the U.S. Occupational Forces—the army units sent to Austria to keep the peace after the war was over. One of my duties was to stand guard at a supply depot in the city. Every morning, I'd see your mother walk down the far side of the street. There was something about her—I'm not sure what it was, but it made me want to talk to her, find out if she was as smart and capable as she was pretty. Finally, I worked up the nerve to wait for her to come back one evening then I tried out my pitiful German on her."

"What did you say?"

"_Guten Abend, Fraulein. Darf ich mit dir gehen?"_

"And what did Mom do?"

"She stopped just long enough to tell me, in English: 'I will go faster alone.' "

"She did?"

"Yep. She shut me down completely."

"Then what did you do?"

Mr. Sutterfield chuckled.

"I told her, 'Sure, but two can haul a heavier load.' It sounded dumb at the time, but it made Clara take another look at me, and it gave me time to convince her I wasn't a masher. We ended up at a café where her friends hung out. It was a lot like the evenings I'd spent with Dad and his friends, food and wine and discussions of how we'd change things for the better when we got the chance."

"Were Mom's friends sp—foreign agents?"

"Some of them. Some of them were just trying to get by under the occupation, just like they had gotten by under the Nazis."

"Did you become an agent because of Mom?"

"Sort of. When it was almost time for my unit to leave Vienna, a man took me aside to ask if I would be willing to work for them after I got back to the States. I said I would, but only if they could pull some strings and get Clara approved as my war bride so she could follow me home. I didn't dare request it because I knew the Army would find out about her ties to the Austrian communists and deny my application."

Mr. Sutterfield paused to check on his sleeping wife then he continued his story.

"It was a near thing. I was packed and ready to go when a runner from HQ came by the barracks and told me Clara's papers had come through. I had to scramble to get both of us to the _Standesamt_ for the ceremony before I boarded the train with my unit. Clara followed three months later with a group of other war brides. By then, I was enrolled in draftsman classes and angling for a job with McKenna."

"So you could spy on them?"

The question slipped out. Daniel winced even as he was saying it, but his father seemed to take no offense.

"No, son," he replied, "I never have been asked to steal secrets from my employer. There may be agents actively attempting to collect intelligence from McKenna, but it's not me—or your mother. Our bosses know our talents are better suited to other jobs."

Mr. Sutterfield then leaned back in his chair and regarded his son with a raised eyebrow.

_He's thinking hard about something… about me… I guess this is when I find out what happens…._

After a few seconds, his father adjusted his glasses then he spoke.

"Daniel, your mother and I had to get permission from our supervisors before we could apply to adopt a child. We had to assure them that a background check would not blow our covers or put any other agents at risk. We also had to promise to say nothing to any child placed with us until the adoption was final. That way, if we had to send the child back, no damage would be done to us or to those we work for.

"That's why your mother reacted the way she did when you brought us that message. She was afraid we would be ordered to give you back to the state, and the thought of losing you triggered those memories and caused her to… uh—become emotional."

"I'm sorry," Daniel said. "I didn't mean to."

His father waved the boy's apology away.

"Not your fault, son. There's no way you could have know. However—"

Mr. Sutterfield peered at Daniel for a moment as though unsure of his next words. The boy leaned forward, partly to look attentive, partly to ease the sudden sick feeling in his stomach.

"Now that you know about us, I guess I should ask: would you rather to go back to foster care?"

The boy's throat went dry. He gulped several times as he considered his answer.

_No, I don't want to go back… I want to be your son—but you're KGB agents… and you're good people who love me—but you're KG—no, you're Committee agents… and you've been great to me... and you want me—Mom said I've been your son since you saw my photo… and when I was all beat up and grimy and scared, you still wanted me… you said I'd be home with you that night—and I was… but—_

To Daniel's surprise, nothing followed that last 'but.'

_It doesn't matter what you are… you both love me and want me and I don't want to live anywhere else… or be anyone else… I want to be Daniel Sutterfield… and I don't care if that means I have to be a sp—foreign agent … I want to be your son…._

Even though his nose was stuffing up and his lips were trembling from fear his answer would not matter, Daniel shook his head.

"Can you keep our secrets and not say anything to anyone?

"Yes, sir—I can."

His father peered at Daniel for what felt like hours to the boy then he smiled and nodded.

"I'm sure you can. You're really a remarkable kid."

He then glanced at his wristwatch.

"Good grief—look at the time. I should get you to bed; you have school tomorrow."

He got to his feet. When Daniel did the same, his father sidestepped the corner of the table and dropped to his knees.

_And he wrapped his arms around me… hugged me close… my eyes started watering all over his shoulder… then he told me how proud he was of me… and how glad he was that I was his son… and I should never forget how much Mom and he loved me…._

Daniel worked an arm loose so he could hug his father back.

"I love you, too," he said, the words muffled by shirt and shoulder.

_I didn't end up in bed that night… Dad said he was going to sleep on a chair in the family room in case Mom woke up… I asked if I could sleep in the other chair… so we brought our pillows and blankets downstairs and spent the night watching over Mom… I was fine in the morning, but Dad moved like he was really stiff… Mom woke up while I was eating my cereal… I overheard Dad telling her about our conversation at the kitchen table…._

Daniel quietly slid from his chair then he sidled along the counter until he was at the doorway to the family room, stopping out of sight of his parents in the family room.

"Did you suspect," he heard his father ask, "that Daniel had found the code pad?"

"No," Mrs. Sutterfield replied, "not at all. He must have been terrified we'd find out and do something to him."

Daniel winced.

_You bet I was… especially after I deciphered that message…._

"I'm telling you, love—if our son can hide something that big from us, we won't have to worry about him keeping our secrets."

His mother let out a loud sigh of relief then she hissed the breath in again.

"Daniel," she called, "are you listening to our conversation?"

The boy pressed himself back against the cabinet doors.

"Daniel?"

Since she did not sound angry, the boy poked his face around the door frame. He saw his parents, his father dressed for work, his mother still in the rumpled shirt and slacks she had slept in, holding hands on the sofa. Both were eyeing him with bemusement.

"Yes, Mom," he admitted. "I was. I'm sorry."

Mr. Sutterfield squeezed his wife's hand then said, "Like I told you—our son's a natural."

His mother peered at her son then she shook her head slowly.

"A natural who needs to be more aware of his surroundings. I saw his reflection move on the toaster."

Daniel twisted to look at the shiny chrome appliance across the kitchen from him.

_I thought I was good at being sneaky, but it turned out I had a lot to learn… first thing Dad taught me was about secret hiding-places… that Saturday, I got to help him make a new one for the one-time pad and the conversion table… he carefully removed a piece of baseboard right inside my closet door then he made sure there was enough room behind it… next, Dad attached dowels to the baseboard and drilled holes into the floor so, when it was replaced, it would stay put like it was nailed there… but I could remove it easily…._

"Why move them from Mom's desk?" Daniel asked when the task was completed.

"Because this very smart kid I know," his father replied, "compromised their original hiding place."

"Why hide them in my closet?"

"Because I'm making you our chief cryptographer," his father told him. "Let your mom check your work until she's certain you can fly on your own, okay?"

The new assignment made Daniel beam with pride.

_From that day on, I did almost all the coding and decoding… Dad even increased my pay... Pete said he wished his parents gave him as much allowance as I got… I never told him how I was earning the money… maybe it was odd, but I had no trouble keeping my family's secrets from Pete and everyone else… it's like I was Daniel Sutterfield, normal kid, with them and I was Daniel Sutterfield, foreign agent, with my parents… I always wanted a secret identity… now, I had one and I didn't even have to change my name… and, on Tuesday, Daniel Sutterfield became my name forever…._

The appointment at the courtroom was something of an anti-climax, not that Daniel cared.

_The judge was in his robe, but he never got up on his bench… although he did let me sit up there… there was a lawyer representing me—a Guardian ad Litem to make sure all the laws were followed and I wasn't being bought or forced against my will… Mrs. Rayburn was there and Miss Bellinger, and my parents and me… the judge asked if all the paperwork was in order… when the lawyer said it was, the judge asked if I wanted to be adopted… when I said I wanted to—very much, he opened a folder and read the following:_

"Now therefore, it is hereby ordered, adjudged, and decreed by the Court that, from this day forth, the said minor before me is declared adopted for life by the petitioners before me and that said child shall henceforth be known by the name of Daniel Sutterfield."

_Mom starting crying and Miss Bellinger was sniffling, but they were both smiling like mad…Mrs. Rayburn handed me the folder with the adoption decree and my new birth certificate with my parents' names on it… the lawyer and the judge both shook my hand… Mom and Miss Bellinger hugged me… everyone congratulated my parents… then we went to eat at Edie's Restaurant, where Mom let me have a ice cream sundae even though it was only lunch… it doesn't sound like much when I describe it, but it was the best day of my life…._

The next chapter will be titled_ The Bifurcated Boy._


	9. The Bufurcated Boy - Part One

Author's Notes (feel free to skip)

Season Two Episodes 8 & 9 shot some holes in my premise. Since this is an alternate universe story, I'll merely note the holes then soldier on with my writing.

S2E08: Harold states he went to Italy after college. In this AU, Harold went from grad school into the corporate world to make his billions. Although he owns property and corporations around the world, in this AU Harold never has travelled outside the U.S. I'll establish why in later chapters. Yes, that means he lied to Grace, but, as we've already seen, it wasn't his only lie to her. (besides, Daniel is a bit old for a ViewMaster, but I may try to work one in anyway.)

S2E09: Finch is shown using a on-line Russian translator. I can wave this away as his forgetting the language through disuse. We did see him read German in S1E08_, Foe_.

On the other hand, my story outline already includes home-made computers.

Bifurcate: v.: to divide into two parts or branches

SW: short-wave radio

* * *

><p>Residence of the Sutterfield Family<br>April 1967 – December 1970  
>Day -12,654 through -11,297<p>

As a foster kid, Daniel had dreamed about how adoption would change his life.

_But I sure didn't expect it be like this… right after my adoption was final, my parents resumed their Committee work … Dad spent evenings in his dark room processing film or at his radio sending and receiving messages… Mom brought out her special paper and inks to make documents… she checked for packages at various drops sites in the area… people came by the house and stayed overnight in the guest room across the hall from my room … there was something happening every day… when Dad said he and Mom provided support for other agents, he wasn't talking about occasional help—my parents were the people who kept everything going…._

The first visitor after Daniel's adoption was Paul Lukin, the man who had recommended Daniel to the Sutterfields.

_And he was the 'L' in the message I decoded… turned out my parents reported to him… his cover job was regional sales manager for a farm equipment company... he travelled all over the Midwest, visiting customers, dealerships, and foreign agents… when I came home from school the day after my adoption, Mr. Lukin was at the kitchen table having coffee with Mom… there was a big plate of oatmeal cookies and some dessert plates on the table… Mom said I could join them…._

Mr. Lukin, a tall, reedy man with narrow features and pale blue eyes, watched Daniel take the seat across from him then help himself to a plate and two cookies.

"You've grown since I saw you," he told the boy. "That was Thanksgiving a year ago—right, Clara?"

"November 29, 1965," his mother replied as she put a glass of milk by Daniel's plate. "You called to say you'd found the perfect son for us. You said he was intelligent, well-behaved, and handsome."

Mr. Lukin cleared his throat.

"I believe I told you," he corrected her, "he looked like Alan."

"As I said," she replied with a fond smile, "handsome."

Daniel ducked his head over his snack and tried not to look embarrassed.

_Mr. Lukin then told me I'd really impressed him that Sunday… he'd been at First Baptist because he and his wife had spent the holiday with his in-laws .… _

"And now," Mr. Lukin continued, "you're is sitting here like you've never been anywhere else. As much as I hate trumpeting my triumphs—"

Daniel's mom snorted a laugh. Lukin grinned back at her.

"—this is the one I'm proudest of. With your talents and abilities…."

He paused to point his finger at Daniel.

"I'm sure you'll do great things—lead nations, cure cancer, maybe build the first moon base. Generations of school children will learn about you in their history classes."

Daniel's mother suggested Mr. Lukin was laying it on a bit thickly, but Daniel drank in the praise.

_Me… in history books… wow…._

"Now, young man," Mr. Lukin then said, "it's time to talk about serious matters. Clara has informed me that you know about your parents' work for the Committee. I gather they explained things to you last night."

Daniel resisted the urge to look at his mother as he ran with the untruth.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "They told me they send in reports on local politics and news, and that they help other agents by getting messages to them and handling their bank accounts. Dad called it 'paper-pushing' and he said it wasn't real spying."

From the corner of his eye, Daniel saw his mother give him a quick smile. Mr. Lukin's nod brought the boy's attention back to him.

"Paper-pushers or not," Lukin told him, "the Soviet people have a better idea of the truth about life in this country thanks to your parents, one they can't get from this government's propaganda. However, people who know they are being observed behave differently than they would otherwise. That's why it's very important that you tell no one about what your parents do."

Daniel nodded to show he understood.

_The observer effect… measuring something can affect its actions thus altering the state being measured… ._

"Dad already told me I have to keep everything secret. I promised him I'd never say anything to anybody."

Mr. Lukin glanced at Mrs. Sutterfield as though to verify Daniel's statement.

"Once Daniel sets his mind to a task," she replied, "he accomplishes it. We'll also make sure to give him only the information he needs until he's ready for more responsibility."

Her words and her calm smile seemed to set Lukin at ease. He leaned back in his chair and gave the boy with an approving grin.

"Oh, I'm certain," he announced, "that Daniel will continue to impress the heck out of me."

Daniel blushed then used Lukin's approval as cover for taking another cookie.

Mr. Lukin stayed for supper then went up to the radio shack with Mr. Sutterfield while Daniel helped his mother with the dishes. The two men were still inside with the door shut at the boy's bedtime; his mother promised to relay Daniel's 'Good-night' when the men's work was completed.

_When I got up the next morning, Mr. Lukin was gone, but he had left a present for me: a chess set, the men carved from boxwood, the board inlayed with elm and bird's-eye maple… with it was a note…._

Daniel, the game of chess develops mental abilities that you will need to achieve your full potential. It will teach you to concentrate, evaluate, plan a strategy then, most importantly, to revise that strategy when the situation changes. I look forward to our first game. P. Lukin.

The boy showed the set and the note to his parents at the breakfast table. They admired the craftsmanship, but both admitted to ignorance of the game beyond how the pieces moved.

"But Mr. Lukin wants to play a serious game with me," he told them.

His father smiled at Daniel over his coffee cup.

"Son, that's what libraries are for. I'll bet your mother can fix you up with a book on chess."

_And Mom did—three of them, in fact… it was a good thing, because several of the people my parents worked with were chess-players… Dr. Manfred Dornberger was one of them… he was a propellants expert at the Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama working on the Saturn V rocket… he and his wife Sonya would stay with us when Dr. Dornberger came to McKenna to oversee projects at the Launch Systems division… his wife was a long-time friend of my mom's… I think they met in Austria after the war… Mrs. Dornberger's hobby was wildlife photography, specializing in swamp birds… she wanted to photograph an Ivory Woodpecker—they're extinct, but people kept claiming to have seen one… she always brought her film to Dad to develop… when they came to visit, Dad would head into his darkroom while Mom and Mrs. Dornberger talked and Dr. Dornberger and I played chess—rather, I lost and he pointed out my mistakes… I learned a lot from him…._

Over the course of the next few months, Daniel also learned the techniques and logistics of his parents' work. An early lesson came one day after school when his mother took him along on her errand run.

"The only Committee people allowed to come to our house," his mother told Daniel as she backed her VW down the driveway," are people approved to be seen with us. Everyone else leaves their items in a neutral place for us to pick up. These places are called dead drops, a term you will not repeat to outsiders."

Daniel nodded and made a mental note to never mention dead drops at school, to his friends, or at Scouts.

"And you return the items to them using a different dead drop, right?" he asked.

"Sometimes. We keep records of all the sites so we know which drop to use and how to use it."

That day, Daniel and his mother checked three dead drops.

_One was at a grocery store behind a loose brick on the outside wall… the signal showing it was in use was a chewed piece of licorice gum stuck four feet above the brick… Mom made sure no one was watching them she had me remove the gum and get the package from behind the brick while she loaded our groceries into the front of her Beetle… I used her grocery list—chewed gum is nasty…._

The package was small: three inches long and an inch-and-a half wide and wrapped in dull black plastic.

"Never use shiny wrappings," his mother noted, "and black works for both dark spaces and drops hidden by vines or plants."

Daniel felt the shape of the item in the plastic.

_A roll of film… maybe Dad will let me help process it…._

The next drop was ten miles from home at the First National Bank. Mrs. Sutterfield parked on the street a block away. Once inside the bank, she was greeted by the bank manager.

"Mrs. Fruits, it's so good to see you again," he called as he crossed the lobby to her. "How may we serve you today?"

Daniel's mother indicated her son.

"This is my nephew Stephen," she said. "I want to open a savings account for him and I'll also need access to my husband's box."

Fifteen minutes later, Daniel was writing "Stephen Fruits" on the signature card to an new account with a two hundred dollar balance.

'_College money,' Mom—I mean Aunt Susan called it… we then went into the safe deposit box room… three walls were filled with metal doors, each had two keyholes and a number… the other wall had booths with tables and chairs so the box owners could have privacy… the teller went to Box #491 and unlocked one lock with a key she had… she then left and Mom unlocked the other lock with a key from her purse… inside the door was a metal box that Mom carried to one of the booths… she opened the box then took an envelope from her purse and placed it inside… after the box was back behind its locked door, we said good-bye to the teller and manager and left… before we got into our car, Mom dropped a brown pebble from our yard at the base of a tree planted in the side walk. _

After they were back on the road, Mrs. Sutterfield explained the bank drop.

"Mr. Fruits, whom you will never meet, will check for that pebble during his morning stroll. If he sees it, he'll go to the bank. We've already informed him that his nephew Stephen is now an account holder so he'll know how to respond if the bank manager asks about you."

"Can I ask what you left for him?"

Mrs. Sutterfield shook her head.

"You only need to know the locations of the drops so you can check them if I can't do it. If you see a white pebble by that tree, that means we have an item to pick up. If the brown pebble stays there more than two days, there may be a problem with Mr. Fruits. In that case, we report it to Mr. Lukin."

_She also told me bank drops aren't very convenient… they're only available when the bank is open, but they are very secure… unless the FBI finds out about them… that's why Mom used a fake name… later, she showed me a Missouri driver's license with her photo and the name 'Susan M. Fruits' on it… Dad took the photo and Mom made the I.D…._

The third drop was at a playground in a city park in Oliveton. Mrs. Sutterfield pulled into the parking lot and gave her son instructions.

_Head to the trees by the nearest ball diamond… if the oak with the low fork has a Teaberry gum wrapper wedged under its bark, I have to check by the third post from the corner of the fence surrounding the reservoir… good thing I know what poison ivy looks like… we learned that at Cub Scout Day Camp …._

It was late afternoon by the time Daniel ran into the park. His mother suggested he act like he was looking for a lost jacket so he dashed first to the playground, stopping at the swing set and slide, then he checked the picnic pavilion before heading for the ball diamond.

_I saw a few people while I was pretending to search: two girls were on the swings with a man on a nearby bench watching them… I asked him if he had seen a brown corduroy jacket… of course, he said 'No…' on my way to the ball diamond, I met a older couple walking a collie … when I stopped to pet it, it licked me in the glasses…._

The crotch of the oak tree held a crumpled slip of pink paper.

_I put it in my pocket then I ran over to the other ball diamond and acted like I was searching the backstop for my jacket before I went to the reservoir fence… at the base of the post, under some Virginia creeper, was a flat package wrapped again in black plastic… no one was in sight so I slid it into my pants pocket, knowing my coat would hide it from view then I headed back to Mom's car…._

Daniel handed his mother the envelope as soon as he was buckled into his seat. Mrs. Sutterfield smiled her approval. When she asked if there were any problems, Daniel shook his head.

"That was fun," he told her. "Kind of like Hide-and-Seek and Capture the Flag all rolled together."

_Maybe I can turn this into a real game… find the hidden package… we could use our compasses… I'll bet there's a Scout badge for game creation… if not, there should be…._

Mrs. Sutterfield's smile vanished.

"Daniel," she admonished him, "this is not a game. One mistake, one word said at the wrong time, one person asking what you just took from that drop and your father and I could be sent to prison and you back to foster care. You must never forget how important this is."

The words "foster care" chilled the boy. He gulped and his mother immediately reached out to pat his hand.

"Keep the games on the chessboard," she told him. "Our work for the Committee demands our complete attention."

"Yes, Mom."

_Attention and memorization was another big part of what I had to learn… I memorized the location of dozens of dead drops and the times and signal methods for each of them… I memorized names and their associated bank accounts, post office boxes, and addresses of safe houses where mail could be delivered for pick-up later or where an agent could stay overnight if needed… I also memorized the locations of caches—places where my parents had hidden false identification and money in case they had to leave home in a hurry… Dad told me those were for emergency use only and that, when I was old enough to need ID, he'd make sure each cache had the appropriate stuff for me, too…._

Daniel also memorized contact information for Paul Lukin and for other support agents.

_If something happened to Mom and Dad, I was supposed to get to a safe house then call Mr. Lukin… if I could not reach him, I was to make a collect call to a couple in Memphis then wait for them to come get me… if twenty-four hours passed with no contact, I was supposed to call Chicago collect and leave a coded message… that meant I also had to memorize several simple codes… teaching them to me was Dad's job…._

One evening, Mr. Sutterfield sat down at the kitchen table with his son, a pad of paper and a pencil. While Daniel watched, his father sketched a five-by-five grid, writing the numerals one through five along the top and left side of the grid. He then filled the squares of the grid with the letters of the alphabet.

"You left out J," Daniel noted as his father wrote.

"Useless letter," Mr. Sutterfield replied. "Humans did without it for centuries. We'll use an I if we really need it."

After he filled in the last square of the grid, he said, "This is a Polybius square, named for the ancient Greek who devised it. He wanted a way to send a message using a small set of symbols. It's also called a knock code because you can transmit it by knocking on a wall or tapping on a pipe."

His father spun the pad until it faced Daniel.

"Now, how would you encrypt 'The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog?'"

Daniel studied the grid for a few moments.

"Do I work this row then column or column then row?"

His father's quick grin told the boy he had asked the right question.

"That depends," Mr. Sutterfield replied. "What is your recipient expecting?"

Daniel grinned back.

"Whatever isn't the standard for working this."

His father's grin widened.

"Standard is row then column."

Daniel stared at the grid.

"Forty-four, thirty-two, fifty-one," he recited, "is 'The.' 'Quick' is fourteen, fifty-four, forty-two…. "

_By the time I finished the sentence, I had the code memorized… Dad told me the Polybius square isn't very secure, but it's easy to remember….and that political prisoners of the Russian tsars used it to communicate with each other… I taught it to Pete and we used it to pass secret messages at school…._

The knock code was one of only three items that bridged Daniel's two lives.

_I mostly kept the stuff I did at school, at Scouts, and with Pete and my other friends completely separate from my parents' Committee work… the knock code was something I could have found in a book—using it didn't make anyone suspicious… since everyone knew about my dad's short-wave transmitter—it's hard to hide that big an antenna—our ham radio activities could be shared with friends… one evening, the Cub Scouts met at my house to talk to a pack in Perth, Australia… we learned kids on ranches in Australia get their school lessons by radio… we all decided Australian kids are lucky ducks… when I became a Boy Scout, the first merit badge I earned was the Radio one… I earned my Electronics and Electrical badges next…._

The third item Daniel decided he could safely share caused great deal of consternation on both forks of his life.

Sutterfield Residence  
>February 17, 1969<br>Day -12,006

The sidewalks and streets were clear of slush and the morning forecast promised sun so Daniel had ridden his bike to school. On his way home afterward, he noticed an unfamiliar car parked in front of his house.

_Dark blue 1967 Ford Galaxie sedan… with government license plates…._

Daniel pedaled up the driveway then stopped before at the corner of his house. Quietly leaving his bike on its kickstand, he tip-toed along the side of the building until he could peer through the storm door leading into the kitchen.

_Two men drinking coffee with Mom at the table… overcoats draped over the back of their chairs, hats on the kitchen counter by the toaster… the agent sitting in Dad's chair at the head of the table: late forties, black hair going gray, navy suit, white shirt, and maroon tie… and the agent next to Mom, facing the door—light brown hair, dark gray suit, white shirt, dark blue tie—he's younger… late twenties… his suit jacket hangs differently on the left side… _

Daniel jerked away from the door.

_Dad told me that usually means a shoulder holster… that makes them Federal agents—FBI, Secret Service, maybe Treasury…._

He pressed himself against the house and hoped the pounding of his heart wouldn't sound through the siding and alert the agents to his presence.

_This is bad… if they're here to arrest Mom & Dad, I have to get out of here fast… go empty their caches, get to a safe house, call Mr. Lukin… but Mom wouldn't serve coffee to anyone trying to arrest her… she might follow their orders, but she'd never treat them like guests…._

He sneaked another look.

_Yes, that's coffee—the sugar bowl and cream pitcher are on the table… maybe this is something else… but I don't know what… maybe they're here about Dad…._

His stomach knotted at the thought that something awful had happened to his father at work and, because McKenna was a defense contractor, the FBI would be the ones notifying his mother.

_But Mom wouldn't be chatting over coffee if Dad were hurt—she'd be racing to the hospital… so they're here for something else… I guess I have to go in and act like I don't know who those men are…. I can do that… it's just like lying to a foster parent and I was good at that…._

Daniel sucked in a deep breath then he sidled along the wall back to his bike to grab his book bag and lunch box. With them in hand, he walked to the storm door and yanked it open the same way he did every day.

"Hi, Mom—I'm… oh."

Daniel halted his rush inside as though surprised by the two men seated at the kitchen table. The door swung shut behind him while he turned to his mother with an artfully contrived expression of confusion.

Mrs. Sutterfield, who was seated on the far side of the table nearest the coffee pot, did not smile a greeting.

"Daniel," she said, "these men are from the FBI."

The boy widened his eyes and repeated his "Oh."

"This is Special Agent Allen—"

The man seated in his father's chair nodded to Daniel.

"—and this is Special Agent Traupman."

The younger agent also nodded in greeting.

"Son," she continued, "they want to talk to you."


	10. The Bufurcated Boy - Part Two

Author's Notes (feel free to skip)

SOP: standard operating procedure

Sportwagon: Buick's Skylark station wagon that carries nine passengers and has a 220-HP V-8 engine. The Sutterfields' model is Sapphire Blue Iridescent, not that this fact affects the story in any way.

11170: the short-wave band used to transmit the Sutterfields' instructions

7UP is a registered trademark of Dr Pepper/Seven Up, Inc.

* * *

><p>Sutterfield Residence<br>February 17, 1969  
>Day -12,006<p>

"Me?"

The squeak in Daniel's voice was from genuine fear.

"Yes, Daniel," Special Agent Allen replied. "Why don't you take a seat next to your mom?"

"Uh—okay."

Daniel took off his coat and hung it by the back door. He then he placed his book bag on the floor below it, and his lunch box on the counter before sliding into the empty chair across from Agent Traupman. Special Agent Allen folded his hands in front of him then he smiled at Daniel.

_He looks like he's trying not to scare me… it isn't working…._

"Daniel," the agent said, "do you remember turning in a school report on the Soviet bloc nation of Estonia? This would have been on Monday, January twenty-seven, three weeks ago."

The boy nodded slowly.

_That's why they're here…? Oh, boy—Mom doesn't know about my shortwave chess games with Alla… or how Mr. Lukin gave me her frequency and call sign so I could talk to her… or that I did my report on Estonia because Alla lives there… Mom hates surprises…._

"Yes, sir," he replied. "That report was for Geography class—five pages with a map of the country. I got an A-plus on it."

Both agents smiled at his answer then Special Agent Allen said, "That's the one. Now, Daniel: what made you choose Estonia for your topic?"

Daniel risked a glance at his mother. Her expression showed only the concern and curiosity expected from a mother whose young son had unexpectedly caught the attention of the FBI.

_Wow—Mom's good… I know she's fuming over not knowing what the FBI knows… and I can't tell the truth right now… but I have to tell the FBI something… maybe stay close to the truth because the truth is the best protection… especially if it's wrapped up in a really good lie… I'm good at lying… okay, here goes…._

He curved his mouth into a weak smile and began his story.

"Our teacher, Miss Strader, gave us that assignment and she said we could earn extra points if we interviewed someone who was from the country we picked for our report. I was going to write on Austria because Mom grew up there, but Pete—he's my friend, he said all his relatives were born here in Missouri and he didn't know anyone to interview. Since I don't really need the extra points, I told him he could use my mom for his report."

Daniel glanced at his mother.

"You didn't mind, did you? I figured it was okay."

Mrs. Sutterfield's smile matched her tone as she said, "I didn't mind. Pete asked some very good questions, but I don't understand why—"

"Excuse me, Mrs. Sutterfield," Agent Traupman said, "but we need to hear Daniel's version in his own words. We'll explain everything once he's finished."

Daniel's mother nodded politely to the agent.

_She's scared even if she's not letting them see it… that makes both of us…._

"Daniel," Special Agent Allen prompted, "if you'll continue?"

The boy bobbed his head then he picked up the thread of his tale.

"I was going to write about Easter Island because I'd read _Aku-Aku_ by Thor Heyerdahl and I figured no one else would pick it, but I was listening to the 40-meter band one night a week before my report was due—"

Agent Traupman held up his hand, halting Daniel's recitation.

"Amateur radio? Short-wave?"

"Yes, sir. Dad taught me all about it and I earned my general license last year."

Traupman looked impressed. Allen prompted the boy to continue.

"I was listening," Daniel repeated, "and I heard someone speaking English who sounded around my age—or not an adult, anyway—so I sent out my call sign and asked if he wanted to talk."

_The first part was truth… the next part is true… this part isn't, but it could have happened this way.… _

The boy put a sheepish expression on his face.

"Turned out she was a girl—Alla Molchanova, and she lived in Paldiski, Estonia. She told me she was in seventh grade—or what would be seventh grade if she lived here—and she was on her school's chess team. I play chess so we started a game and played until I had to go to bed."

Daniel paused to take a breath and judge the reaction to his tale.

_Special Agent Traupman is nodding… Mom's face just went blank… I really should have told her about Alla… Special Agent Allen is opening his mouth—I hope his question shows he's buying my story…._

"Did you," Allen asked, "get to finish that game?"

Daniel nodded.

"Yes. We finished it two nights later."

"How did you do?"

Daniel winced.

"Not good,' he replied. "Alla wiped the board with me, but I'd written down all the moves so I could study them and our next game was a lot closer. I think we're even on the game we're playing now: she has her queen, king, one rook, one knight, and four pawns, and I have my queen, king, a bishop, two rooks, and two pawns."

The blank expressions on the agents' faces gave Daniel a thrill.

_I got them on the chess, at least… now, to risk a question…._

He shifted his gaze from the agent to his mom then back again.

"Sir," he addressed the older agent, "am I in trouble for talking to Alla?"

"Sorry, son," Special Agent Allen told him, "but I have a couple more questions left. First one: did you decide to use Miss Molchanova for your report or did she tell you about her life on her own?"

"I asked her," Daniel quickly replied. "I knew I could get those extra points if I switched my topic to Estonia. Alla told me about her school and her apartment and the foods she eats and how people in Paldiski dress—all the things Miss Strader wanted in our reports."

"Second question," Allen said next, "have you had any other communication with Miss Molchanova besides on the radio?"

Daniel started to shake his head then he froze.

_The answer is 'Yes,' but I think my answer is going to make Mom even madder at me…._

Before he could reply, Special Agent Traupman spoke up.

"Did you and Alla exchange QSL cards?"

"Yes, sir," he replied, hiding a wince at his mother's frown. "Does that count?"

When Special Agent Allen looked puzzled, Traupman explained the phrase.

"It's a post card," he said, "used to acknowledge that a radio operator has heard a transmitted message. QSL stands for 'Will you confirm receipt of my transmission?' Most hams have cards printed with their call signs that they mail for confirmation."

The older agent raised his eyebrows at the info.

"My dad was a ham," the younger man replied.

"Oh, good to know."

Allen then turned back to Daniel.

"Is that what happened, son?"

"Yes, sir," he told the agent. "I mailed a card to her the day after we first talked and I got one from her last Friday."

From the corner of his eye, Daniel caught his mother glaring at him.

_Oh, boy… Mom is going to take my bike away, ground me, and then kill me…._

"Can you show me the card Alla sent you?" Allen then asked.

"Yes, sir. I'll go get it."

He braced his hands on the table to push his chair back.

_Don't stop me… don't come with me… I can't let the FBI near Dad's equipment…._

Neither agent moved to accompany Daniel so he ran up the stairs to the radio shack and grabbed the notebook holding his QSL cards from the shelf above his father's equipment.

_I don't have many cards yet… there's Alla's and the one from the Scout leader in Perth and a couple dozen from around North America… Dad has hundreds… even though the radio is for Committee work, he's also a very active operator…._

Once back in the kitchen, he handed the notebook to Special Agent Allen, who held it up so Traupman could note Daniel's call sign written on the cover. Allen then opened the notebook.

"This card has her father's name on it," Allen said. "Alexei Molchanov."

Daniel noted that the younger man looked impressed by the info.

_The FBI knows her dad's name…._

Special Agent Allen then closed the notebook. He raised his head and peered at Daniel.

"Did you know that Admiral Alexei Molchanov is in command of the Soviet Navy's nuclear submarine training facility at Paldiski?"

"He is?" Daniel blurted.

Allen nodded.

"He is. That's why his daughter has access to radio equipment forbidden to almost everyone else behind the Iron Curtain."

Daniel grabbed the edge of his seat to keep from shaking.

_I'm not faking now… I didn't know… why didn't Mr. Lukin warn me her dad was important?_

He glanced at his mother, unsure of what he should do next. Mrs. Sutterfield's blank expression warned that she was as surprised as her son, and her voice quavered when she spoke.

"Does this mean my son is in trouble?" she asked. "He could not have known this girl's father was—"

Her words trailed off when Special Agent Allen rose from his chair.

"I understand your concern," he told her, "but I need to confer with Special Agent Traupman. We'll only take a minute."

He beckoned to the younger agent, who then followed Allen into the Sutterfield's family room. Both men stayed in view of Daniel and his mother while they conversed, but their voices were too low to be overheard.

Daniel turned toward his mother and mouthed the words "I'm sorry, Mom." She reached out and patted his hand.

_But she didn't say anything to me… and she's biting her lower lip… I really blew this big time…. _

True to his word, Special Agent Allen ended his discussion with his fellow agent quickly. They returned to the kitchen, halting across the table from Daniel and his mother.

"The Bureau," Special Agent Allen told them, "received a tip that someone in this household was conducting unlawful communications with agents in the Soviet Union. When we learned our investigation had been prompted by a grade-school geography report, both Special Agent Traupman and I realized it was probably nothing, but we still had to investigate. I can assure both you and your mother that we will close this matter as soon as we get back to our desks."

Daniel sank back in his chair.

_It worked… it actually worked… I lied and they believed me…._

"Mrs. Sutterfield," he continued, "thank you for your time and for your patience. I don't see any reason for us to take up any more of your or your son's afternoon."

Daniel glanced at his mother. Mrs. Sutterfield was rising from her chair, her face flushed, her jaw set.

"That's it?" she demanded. "You waltz in here, treat my son like he is a spy then you apologize, and leave? Who is this who reported my son? How can someone do this to a child simply for writing a report? For talking to another child on the radio?"

Daniel noted that both two agents eased back, away from her anger.

"Mrs. Sutterfield," Allen replied, "we can't divulge the source of the tip, but I can say it's someone who has not been overly reliable in the past. If it weren't for the serious nature of the charge, we would have put it in the circular file as soon as it came in."

Daniel's mother took a step towards the agents.

"And that is where it belongs," she snapped at them, "in the waste basket. Don't you dare keep a file on my son for playing chess with a girl—I don't' care where she lives or who her father is. I will make sure Daniel's father oversees his activities much more closely and there will be no more—how did you say it? Oh, yes—' conducting unlawful communications with agents in the Soviet Union.'"

She drew herself upright.

"I have lived under dictators. I would never condone such disloyalty to the country of which I now am a citizen—never."

Daniel swallowed a grin.

_Wow—way to go, Mom… you tell them…._

Traupman glanced at the back door as though measuring the distance between him and safety. Allen drew in a breath then raised his hands as though in surrender.

"Mrs. Sutterfield," he replied, "I understand your distress. I personally would not want my daughters to be under this sort of suspicion. I ask for your forgiveness and I assure you—this will not come up again. You have my word."

Mrs. Sutterfield nodded once.

"I should think so. Accusing children of spying—you should be ashamed."

Special Agent Allen reached for his overcoat and hat, actions his partner copied.

"Again, our apologies," Allen told her, "to both you and Daniel."

Daniel watched his mother smile at the agents as though they were forgiven, but she also walked around the table to block their access to the back door.

"I know you have to do your jobs," she said. "I only wish it didn't mean questioning children. Since you have your coats, shall I walk you to the door?"

Allen nodded. Mrs. Sutterfield held out her hand to invite the agents to precede her to the front door. Daniel rose from his chair and held out his right hand to Special Agent Allen. His left hand he put behind his thigh so they couldn't see his crossed fingers.

"It was good meeting you, sirs," he said, "and I won't have anything else to do with Alla—I promise."

_A promise I won't keep because Alla's my friend… Mom and Dad will understand—after they get over being mad at me…._

"That's an excellent idea," Special Agent Allen said as he shook Daniel's hand. "You should also keep up the good work at school. A-plus grades are something to be proud of."

"Yes, sir."

As the agents left the kitchen, Mrs. Sutterfield caught her son's eye then pointed to his room. Daniel grabbed his notebook and his bookbag then he dashed up the back stairs to his room, tossing both bookbag and binder onto his bed. Faint voices came from downstairs then the front door opened and closed again then the boy heard the sound of his mother's footsteps returning to the kitchen.

_Boy, I hope Mom's not too angry with me... she was sure mad at those agents… Special Agent Traupman looked like a scared rabbit when she told them off… I almost expected him to run through the back door and leave an agent-shaped hole like in the cartoons…._

A faint voice in the back of the boy's head muttered something about not laughing at Federal agents.

_Right—men who can arrest my parents and throw me back in foster care aren't jokes… but I fooled the FBI… wow…._

Downstairs, he could hear wood being dragged across linoleum.

_Sounds like Mom's moving the kitchen chairs around… I guess I should have told Dad and her about Alla… but, when Mr. Lukin told me how to contact her, he said it was so I could play chess with someone my own age… I didn't think it had anything to do with Committee work… I was just happy to make a new friend… even if she is a girl… I really liked our chess games… I even liked losing—to her, anyway… and maybe I should have said something about her QSL card when it arrived, but it was addressed to me…._

Daniel picked up the notebook, opening it to the postcard bearing Admiral Molchanov's name.

_I hope Mom and Dad don't ground me from using the radio for too long… it's not my fault Mr. Lukin didn't tell me about her dad… maybe, if I offer to stay off the air for a couple of weeks, that will be enough… I'll ask Dad when he gets home…. _

He looked at the alarm clock on his nightstand, which read a quarter to five.

_Oh, heck—I'm supposed to listen for messages today… not that I want to mention radios to Mom right now… but I guess I have to…._

Daniel went to the top of the back stairs and called down to his mother.

"Mom, can I use the radio to listen—"

"No!"

The crisp syllable was followed by his mother's footsteps coming up the stairs. Daniel bolted for his room and grabbed his bookbag from the bed. By the time Mrs. Sutterfield reached the door to his room, Daniel had his homework laid out on his desk and was in his chair, studiously working through a fractions worksheet.

_Mom did not stop or say a word to me… she just walked down the hall to the radio shack… I heard switches snap and the sound of the receiver warming up… I think this means I really am in trouble…._

En route to Happy Family Chinese Restaurant  
>February 17, 1969<br>Day -12,006

Daniel had been at the top of the back stairs, out of sight of any parent who might spot him, when his father came home. He listened while his mother greeted his father then gave him an accurate if superficial description of the FBI's visit.

_My dad's reaction matched Mom's—concern then relief it turned out to be nothing… but Mom didn't say anything about her monitoring for messages instead of me…._

The adults' voices faded as they left the kitchen. Daniel leaned against the wall and considered the matter.

_This is how things were before my adoption: no mention of Committee stuff at all… and Mom still hasn't asked me anything Alla… I figured she'd want to know… it's like she thinks the FBI bugged our house or something..._

The boy's stomach knotted so hard he bent forward to ease the pain.

_Listening devices… bugs… in our house… because of me… but I fooled the FBI—they believed me…._

"Daniel," he heard his father call from the kitchen, "Get down here. I'm taking you and Mom out to eat."

He tiptoed back to his room before replying then he rushed to the stairs taking them two at a time in his dash to outrun his fear. Neither parent said anything to Daniel when he arrived downstairs although they were carrying on a lively conversation as the family exited the house.

_Dad was telling Mom he didn't expect a home-cooked meal after her day was spent entertaining the FBI… she replied that it wasn't really entertaining, but she couldn't wait to tell her friends at the library about their visit… I tagged after them, getting into the back seat of Dad's Sportwagon and buckling up without being reminded… up front, Dad and Mom discussed restaurant choices until we were on the main road into town… that's when Dad finally spoke to me…._

"Daniel," he said, "I need the whole story and I need it now."

_So I told him all about Mr. Lukin telling me how to contact Alla and about playing chess with her and about my geography report—everything I told the agents and everything I omitted… after I finished, both my parents were quiet for a long time… I figured they were waiting for me to say I was sorry so I did…._

"I didn't know who Alla's father was," Daniel told them. "She never mentioned him or what he did, and Mr. Lukin never said anything about him. I thought it was safe to—"

"Well, it wasn't," his mother snapped. "Now, we have to report this to someone whose name you don't need to know. A special team will have to sweep the house for listening devices—"

Daniel shrank back against the seat at the confirmation o f his fears.

"—and we'll have to suspend our activities until we're cleared to resume them. Daniel, what were you thinking?"

Mrs. Sutterfield did not wait for her son's answer. Instead, she asked her husband if anyone was following them. Daniel twisted in his seat to see the headlights of the car behind them.

"No one that I can see," Mr. Sutterfield replied. "Let's head to the pizzeria then make a U-turn and go to Edie's. We'll stop in the parking lot for a couple minutes then leave like we changed our minds and want Chinese instead. If anyone follows us to all three places, we'll spot him."

His wife lowered the sun visor on her side of the car then she angled it so the mirror mounted on it reflected the rear window.

"And, once we get to the restaurant," Mr. Sutterfield continued, "I'll use the pay phone to report this and schedule that team."

Daniel dared a question.

"Will they remove the bu—uh, what they find?"

"No, they won't," his mother replied. "Removing them is the same as calling the FBI to tell them we found them. If our house has been bugged, we will spent the next weeks or months convincing those listening that your stunt with that girl was a simple childish mistake. If our superiors determine that we have been successful, we will be reactivated to continue our work. If we fail to convince the FBI—"

His mother turned to scowl at Daniel.

"—I remember telling you the consequences of being caught."

Daniel tried to say he knew, but nothing came from his mouth when he opened it.

_No foster care… not ever again… no… please, no…._

"However," his dad added, "if nothing is found, then we have little to worry about. A few days' down time, nothing more. Clara, were those two agents ever out of your sight?"

His wife shook her head.

"I walked them from the front door to the kitchen when they arrived and I walked them out again the same way when they left. They stepped into the family room for a moment to talk, but they never left my sight."

Mr. Sutterfield nodded.

"I'll tell the team to concentrate on the porch, entry, hall, kitchen, and family room. It's not likely those agents planted a bug, but we can't be too careful."

"I already checked the kitchen table," his wife told him, "and the cabinets where they laid their hats. I would have searched further, but I had to stop at five o'clock to monitor 11170."

Daniel flinched from the pointed glare aimed at him via the visor mirror. His father reached out to take his wife's hand.

"I know you're upset, love," he said, "but most of this is Paul's fault. We should have been told Daniel was jawing with Molchanov's daughter. He knows the government tracks Soviet military and Party officials and ears would prick up if they heard his name."

Daniel relaxed a bit at his father's shifting of blame. His mother, however, had another cause for concern.

"And from whom did they hear that name? That's what I'd like to know. All I could get from those agents was that their source was not very reliable."

As his parents debated possibilities, Daniel considered the matter.

_It's someone who would normally see my school work—unless the government is reading everybody's homework assignments… I don't think they have enough manpower to do that… so the person would have to be Miss Strader or someone at her house because teachers sometimes take our work home to grade it… she lives with her parents—Pete told me that… he also said she's got some nieces and nephews who go to our school—and one of them is—_

"Billy Saunders," he blurted.

Both his parents stopped their conversation. Daniel hurried to explain.

"Billy Saunders is Miss Strader's nephew," he explained. "The first week I was here, Billy cornered me at recess and said we were godless Communists because we never go to church. I convinced him we weren't."

He paused to try a weak smile. Neither parent smiled back.

_Well, I think it's ironic…._

"Billy then told me he was sorry and he'd only accused me because his father really worries about Communists."

"Must be Frank Saunders," his father replied. "I've heard about him at Scout meetings. The man refused to let his sons join because he thinks Lord Baden-Powell was a Nazi sympathizer."

The mention of the founder of Boy Scouting prompted Daniel to ask if he really was one.

"No, son," he father replied, "but he was a fan of Benito Mussolini's early efforts to modernize Italy, and he did say some kind words about _Mein Kampf _as a book."

"Many Englishmen admired the fascists at first," his mother noted. "It took the Anschluss and _blitzkrieg_ to make their true nature obvious to the_ intelligentsia_. As to Frank Saunders, I remember him from the library. He came in two years ago with a list of books he wanted us to remove from our shelves. When the head librarian refused, he threatened to go to the city council, but nothing ever came of it."

"Saunders probably has as much credibility with the council as he has with the Feds," Mr. Sutterfield noted. "Maybe we should invite him over. One look at our bookshelves and he'll keel over dead."

Daniel snickered, but his mother shook her head.

"Allen, that's not funny—not after I had to lead those agents past those same books."

"Don't worry," his father replied. "I'm not letting that man in our house. Besides, after today, it sounds like the Feds won't be taking any more of his phone calls."

"Good."

"I agree. Now, brace for evasive maneuvers."

Daniel grabbed the armrest as the station wagon made a slow, ponderous turn across oncoming traffic.

_No one made the U-turn after us… no one followed us into Edie's parking lot… Dad pulled into the first empty parking space and left the engine running… both him and Mom then turned around to look at me… neither of them looked happy… or forgiving…._

Daniel drew in a deep breath.

_FBI, bugs, me looking like I hid Alla on purpose… they have every reason to be mad…._

"Daniel," his father said, "I know you're probably kicking yourself over what happened today."

"Yes, sir."

_But it's not my fault, not really… if Mr. Lukin had told me about the admiral, none of this would have happened… he let me think Alla was just a normal kid…._

"Now," Mr. Sutterfield then said, "we'll probably get through this without a hitch, but it does show why it's important to keep Committee business completely separate from everything else you do."

Daniel opened his mouth to protest that it was Mr. Lukin who messed things up, not him, but his father kept talking.

"No matter how small it appears to be, anything concerning a foreign agent or Committee member is Committee business. Frankly, son—I'm surprised you forgot that fact."

Daniel dropped his gaze to his seatbelt to avoid seeing his father's displeasure.

"Yes, sir. I know better."

"Like I said," his father continued, "I think we're going to be okay, but we still have to act like a family whose son was questioned by the FBI for talking to the enemy. This means you're grounded from the radio shack for the next two weeks."

Mrs. Sutterfield laid a hand on her husband's shoulder.

"Unless you're planning to take us out to eat for the next two Mondays and Thursdays," she told him, "you'd better allow him to do the five o'clock monitoring."

"Good point. Daniel, you're grounded except for that, but I'm withholding your pay until the two weeks is up."

The boy sighed then nodded.

_It could be worse… and 'withholding' makes it sound like I might get paid after the two weeks are up… I won't mind that… and, after I'm ungrounded, Alla and I can finish our game and we can—_

"And," his father added, "you must keep your promise to never contact Alla again. Understood?"

_What?_

Daniel bolted upright then he gaped at his father.

"No! That's not right. You can't take—"

Mrs. Sutterfield, her face set in the deepest scowl Daniel had yet seen, interrupted him.

"What we can't take," she told him, "is the risk that the Feds will be watching for radio traffic or mail between you and Comrade Molchanova."

"But—"

"Your mother's right," Mr. Sutterfield said. "With everything that's at stake here, we can't take the risk."

Daniel searched their faces, lit by the glow of the street lamps through the side windows, hoping for some understanding of his plight.

_I didn't mean to get us in trouble… It's like they care more about their stupid Committee than they do about me… _

His parents' stern expressions dashed Daniel's hopes.

"Okay," he said, forcing out the words, "I promise."

His father put the Sportwagon into reverse.

"Good. Now, let's go get that Chinese dinner we just decided we wanted."

_No one followed us to the Chinese restaurant… it wasn't very busy so Mom asked for the back corner booth… she sat where she could see the entrance while Dad went to the payphone by the restrooms… when I slid into the booth across from Mom, she told me to take a menu and figure out what I wanted… I didn't care what I ordered… everything inside me hurt too much to think about food…._

When Mr. Sutterfield returned, he took a seat besides his wife then gave her and Daniel a thumbs-up.

"A team will be at our house around eleven," he told his family. "We're to turn out the lights and act like we're heading to bed except we're to leave the back door unlocked. The team will sweep the house and report what they find. Another team will watch the house and our cars to make sure we're not being watched."

Mr. Sutterfield then gave a sour chuckle.

"I also told them to charge everything to Lukin since his fumble started this mess."

The waiter approached their table to take their orders, preventing further conversation. When asked what he wanted, Daniel only shrugged and said he wasn't very hungry.

"Kung Pao chicken and 7UP for him, then," his father ordered.

As soon as the waiter left with their orders, Daniel's mother leaned forward as though to get her son's attention. Daniel kept his gaze on his napkin.

"Daniel," his mother snapped. "Are you pouting?"

The boy lifted his head just far enough to glare at her.

_I'm not pouting—I'm mad… this wasn't my fault… I'm the one who fooled the FBI and fixed it—all by myself… and now you're taking Alla away…._

To the boy's surprise, his eyes moistened and his throat and chest tightened. When he tried to take a breath, it shuddered through him and came out sounding too much like a sob. He clenched his teeth to keep another one in.

"May I be please excused?" he asked.

Before either parent could respond, he tossed his napkin on the seat and bolted for the men's room. Once inside, Daniel locked the door then slumped against it.

_I'm not crying… I'm too old to cry… besides, it's silly to cry over someone I've known for only six weeks … someone I never even met in person… so what if she likes the way my voice sounds… and she thinks I tell good stories… it doesn't matter, anyway… my parents are right… nothing is worth the risk of them going to prison… but I like Alla… this isn't fair…._


	11. The Bifurcated Boy - Part Three

Author's notes (feel free to skip)

Royal® pudding: the powdered contents of a box of it were mixed with milk and heated to make pudding (or pie filling) One of the first things I learned to make as a child

_Das Schloss: _Kafka's_ The Castle, _his final novel

KPSS: _Kommunisticheskaya partiya Sovetskogo Soyuza _or the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

_Steganography_: the science (or art) of concealing writing

_Microdot camera_:

_MIPT_: Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology** (** Московский Физико-Технический институт (государственный университет) Also known as the Russian MIT, it prepares specialists in theoretical and applied physics, applied mathematics, and related disciplines. It began as the Department of Physics and Technology within Moscow State University; this gave the Institute the nickname "Phystech"

_Schillings_: currency in Austria at the time of this story

* * *

><p>Sidewalk in front of the Sutterfield Residence<br>April 2, 1969  
>Day -11,961<p>

_The team that searched our house for bugs that night found nothing… the other team that watched our neighborhood to see if the FBI was tailing our cars or had staked out our house also saw nothing… my parents were able to resume their Committee work about the time Dad ungrounded me from the radio… I never heard Alla on the 40-meter band again… and my parents never mentioned her… it really hurt to pack up the travel chess board I was using for our game—not only did I believe I could have won, but it was kind of like burying our friendship… sure, she was a girl, but I could talk to her about stuff other than chess… it was fascinating comparing our lives… so much of it was almost the same even though she was halfway around the world… I thought about throwing away her QSL card, but I couldn't get it to leave my fingers when I went to put it in the trash… instead, I took the Russian dictionary Mom had given me and looked up the word _подруга—_feminine for 'friend'—and I left it there as a bookmark…._

Daniel's loss of a friend wasn't the only fallout from the FBI incident.

_Mr. Lukin stopped coming by to visit us… I know Mom and Dad still talked to him on the phone, but the calls I overheard were all business… judging from Mom's face during those calls, he was on her dirt list… I miss his visits even if what he said about me was a little embarrassing… I really doubt I'm ever going to be famous… but it was neat to hear him say it…._

The mailman was walking away from the Sutterfields' mailbox when Daniel arrived home from school that April day. He stopped his bike at the box to grab the letters inside it before riding around to the back door.

"Mom, I'm home," he called as soon as he was inside, "and I have the mail."

His mother's reply came up the stairs from the basement.

"Leave it on the counter and help yourself to last night's cobbler."

Daniel tossed the mail by the kitchen phone. He then put a double scoop of the apple pastry in a bowl because his mother wasn't there to catch him. After drenching his snack in milk, he headed for the table to eat it.

On his way past the scattered stack of mail, he noticed that an ivory-colored business envelope had the letters "D-a-n" written on it; what followed was obscured by an utility bill. Daniel pulled the letter from the pile.

_It's addressed to me: black ballpoint pen in cursive… the return address is printed: _Mustasaarihotelli, Palosaarentie 31, 65200 VAASA, Suomi… _where the heck is that?_

Daniel checked the postage stamps.

_Wow—this came airmail… one stamp has a great drawing of a DC-3 flying over a winter landscape… and it reads both 'Suomi' and 'Finland…' I sure as heck don't know anyone in Finland, but Carl at Scouts will want the stamps…._

His cobbler now forgotten, Daniel opened the envelope with a letter opener from the drawer by the phone. Inside was a sheet of stationery that matched the envelope and a black-and-white photo of a boy about Daniel's age; he had dark hair and was wearing a dark wool coat over a light knit pullover. Behind him was a glass door with the word "_Mustasaarihotelli_" painted on it.

_No idea who he is… or why someone sent me his photo… maybe the letter explains it…._

Daniel picked up the sheet of paper and read it.

**20. March 1969**

**Dear Daniel,**

**I am happy you will be my pen pal. I am Ensio Koskinen and I live at the Mustasaari Hotel, which my father is the manager. My mother and my two older sisters live here also. I am eleven years of age and I am a Boy Scout like you. My patrol meets every week. When I am old enough for Sea Scouts, I will sail in the summers.**

**In school I am in forth year of basic school. My favorite classes are reading and languages. I am learning English and French. Do you know any languages that are not English? What is your patrol doing? Do you have Sea Scouts where you live?**

**I am excited to find out about you. Please write to me soon. Please send a photo also.**

**Regards,**

**Ensio**

Daniel stared at the letter. It appeared perfectly normal except for its unexpected arrival.

_Why does Ensio have my name and address?_

Two possibilities came to mind:

_Maybe this is a test—Mom and Dad wondering if I'll tell them about this letter because I didn't tell them about Alla's QSL card … but faking a penpal letter from Finland would be a lot of work… if Mom wanted to test me, she could have mailed a false letter locally… just in case, I'll mention this letter at dinner tonight… but maybe it isn't a test… maybe our den leader signed everyone up as penpals and forgot to tell us… or he announced it at that meeting I missed two weeks ago because I had a cold…._

Daniel grabbed the phone and dialed the Bennetts' number. When Mrs. Bennett answered, he asked to speak with Pete.

_She said they were about to leave for baseball practice… I promised to keep it short and not hold Pete up… when Pete got on the line, I asked him about penpals…._

"Nope," Pete replied. "Mr. Parmenter didn't say anything about penpals and I hope he doesn't. I get enough letter-writing at Christmas and birthdays what with all the thank-you notes Mom has me wri—yes, Mom, I'm hanging up. Daniel, talk to you later."

Daniel cradled the handset.

_Okay, so that's not it… but I really don't like the idea that Mom and Dad are testing me… even if I deserve it…._

He looked again at the letter and its envelope.

_Mom is so proud of her document work… if I can prove this letter is a fake, that should impress the heck out of her and Dad… and pay them back a little for testing me…._

Daniel picked up his book bag and the letter and took both to his room. Once there, he placed the letter on his desk then he turned on his desk lamp.

_First of all, this isn't the ivory-colored paper Mom keeps on-hand for her documents…._

He used a ruler from his desk drawer to measure the sheet of paper.

_Not quite eight and a half by eleven… it's too narrow and too tall… in millimeters, it's 210 by 297… that makes it a European size… it feels like twenty-eight pound bond… looks like it when I hold it up to the light… would Mom buy European paper just to fool me?_

He shrugged at his question.

_If it was important—heck, yes… Mom's a perfectionist…._

Daniel next examined the envelope with a magnifying glass that had been a birthday gift the previous year.

_20x magnification… I used it at day camp last summer… the pack that knew the most ways to start a fire won … our pack won… the ink in the post office cancellations looks like it should—ragged on the edges where the stamp picked up extra ink—Mom warned me never make my hand-drawn cancellations too smooth… I don't know enough about Finnish postage stamps to tell anything about the two here… they look like real stamps—security paper, glue on the back with even, machine-cut perforations… the return address is letterpress in a dark brown ink—I can see the indentations from the type used to make each letter… according to Mom, most business letterheads are offset printing—the ink is rolled on to the paper from a rubber surface that accepts the design from a printing plate… there is no pressing or stamping involved… faking letterpress or embossing can't be done with pen and ink… so Mom would have had to get a printer to produce one envelope and one sheet of paper just to fool me… an expensive thing to do…._

Daniel then reached for the sheet of paper to check its letterhead.

_It's the same font as on the envelope—not one I recognize… and it's the same ink and printing method…._

Since there wasn't anything else he could discern from the letterhead, Daniel put his magnifying glass down so he could compare the handwriting on the letter and its envelope.

_The same person addressed the envelope and wrote the letter… the pen ink is the same color and all the letters are formed the same … the letters aren't exactly like the cursive letters I was taught… but Mom would know if European cursive is different from American cursive… she would also know to make her writing look like a kid's and not a grown-up's… there's a hitch in the line joining the 'o' and the 'r' in 'forth'… like the writer almost wrote the 'u' that should be there, but changed his mind… would Mom be so thorough as to make it look like the writer hesitated before misspelling that word?_

Daniel shrugged at that, too.

_I'll have to ask… it's a handy trick to know if I ever have to fake a hand-written letter from someone who can't spell…._

He picked up his glass to close more closely at the hitch.

_There's a dot on top of that hesitation mark… it's black, but a different shade… and it's not a flaw in the paper… it's too round…._

He shifted the paper to let the dot catch the light from his desk lamp.

_The ink is dull, but the dot reflects the light… Dad told me about something like this…._

Daniel put the letter on his desk and stared at the dot while he remembered.

_Microdots, Dad called them… they're either made with a special camera or by photo-reduction—taking a photograph then photographing its negative then photographing the resulting negative until the final negative is the size of a period… spies during WWII glued them to letters and documents, and hid them inside things like hollow coins and secret compartments in jewelry… Dad said their one weakness was the material of the negative is shiny—like the dot I found…._

He tried reading the dot with his magnifying glass.

_No luck… I probably have to mount it on a slide and use Dad's microscope…._

"Daniel?"

His mother's call made the boy jump.

"Yes, Mom?"

"Did you leave your cobbler on the kitch—"

Before she could finish, Daniel grabbed the letter and its envelope and dashed for the back stairs. When he reached the lower steps, he saw his mother cradling his snack bowl in her hands.

"Sorry, Mom," he said as he entered the kitchen. "I forgot to eat it."

Mrs. Sutterfield eyed the bowl of cobbler then she shifted her glare to him.

"You were hungry enough to take a huge helping, but not hungry enough to eat it? Daniel, I've been without food too many times in my life to be comfortable with you—"

Daniel cut off her standard lecture on food waste by holding out the envelope. His mother peered at it for a moment then she reached for it. As she did so, the boy took the bowl from her other hand.

"That came in the mail," he told her, "and I don't know who sent it to me."

_Was it you?_

He ate a spoonful of cobbler as his mother examined the envelope.

_Checking the writing, the printing, the stamps, the feel of the paper… holding it up to the sunlight through the window… everything I did…._

"Do you have the letter that was inside this?" she asked.

He handed her the sheet of paper.

"It's the same paper, same printing, same handwriting and ink," he told her, "and I found a microdot by the 'r' in 'forth.' Why would someone I don't know send me a secret message?"

He put his best "I have no idea" expression on his face and waited for her response.

_Please say you don't know… don't say you were testing me…. _

Mrs. Sutterfield held the letter up to the sunlight, angling the paper so the light fell on the misspelled word.

"I do not know," she replied, each word enunciated carefully as she examined the tiny reflective dot. "I have not seen a microdot since before leaving Vienna. The Germans used them so often that counter-espionage services knew to check for them. The English called them 'duff' because they said the dots were scattered in German correspondence like raisins in plum duff."

Daniel paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

"What's plum duff," he asked, "and why isn't it called raisin duff if it has raisins in it?"

His mother raised an eyebrow at him.

"Curiosity," she replied, "is a good thing—when it isn't distracting you from the problem at hand."

Daniel finished his spoonful of cobbler…

_I looked it up later… duff is a pudding—the baked kind, not the kind Royal makes… and in nineteenth-century England, plum was the catchall name for dried fruit… it's fascinating how words change over time and between countries…._

… then he asked if he could remove the microdot and use his father's microscope to read it. His mother frowned as she considered her reply.

"Do you know how to do this?" she asked.

The boy shook his head.

"No, but it should be easy. All I have to do is—"

His mother's sudden fond smile made him swallow his explanation.

_I get that smile when Mom thinks I'm being adorable… she really likes it when I get enthusiastic about Committee work…._

"You want me to wait for Dad, right?"

Mrs. Sutterfield nodded.

"We can take the time to be careful," she told him. "Better to have your father show you the correct method than to rush when we don't have to hurry. I'll leave the letter here with the rest of the mail until he arrives home."

Daniel dawdled over his cobbler, but the hour and seventeen minutes between his final spoonful and the sound of his father's car in the driveway seemed slower than a snail's transit. The boy did his homework, his Russian lesson, and read two chapters of _Das Schloss _before he heard his father's station wagon pull into the driveway. Once inside, Mr. Sutterfield examined the letter and confirmed his son's assertion.

"Clara," he asked, "do we have time to look at this before we eat?"

Mrs. Sutterfield lowered the heat under the two saucepans on the stove.

"Now we do."

The three of them went into the basement, where Mr. Sutterfield turned on the lights for his workbench then the magnifying lamp mounted on the bench. Daniel was thrilled when his father asked him to get the microscope stored with his father's photographic equipment.

_He said there was no time like the present for me to learn how to handle microdots... Dad echoed Mom's statement that they weren't used much anymore, but that's the best time to use something—when no one expects it..._

Under his father's direction, Daniel set up the compound microscope and plugged in its cord, checking its bulb to make sure it worked. He then prepared a glass slide and cover.

_Dad stores them so they don't pick up dust, but he made me clean them just in case..._

While he was cleaning the slides, his mother brought the sprinkler bottle she used for her ironing to the workbench and set it by Daniel.

"A little water," his father said, "will lift the adhesive holding the microdot off the paper. Too much and you risk it floating away."

"There's distilled water in this bottle," his mother added. "It won't leave any residue on the microdot.

Daniel considered his next step.

_I want just a drop or two... so I'd better be careful... then I need something to lift the dot to the slide when it's free..._

"May I have an Exacto knife?" he asked.

His father opened a drawer and removed a cardboard case. Inside were a set of razor-bladed knives, one of which he held out for his son to take.

" Doctor Sutterfield, your scapel."

Daniel grinned at the title. Behind him, his mother giggled.

"You like that idea, Clara?" her husband asked.

When she nodded, he added, "Then we'd better start saving our schillings for medical school now."

The boy raised his eyebrows at his father's words.

_Medical school? But I'm only in fifth grade... might be cool to be a doctor... research doctor anyway... I don't think I could cut into anyone..._

A soft cough from his mother reminded the boy of the task before him. Daniel picked up the sprinkler bottle and held it over the floor, away from the bench. He then carefully released a drop of water onto the knife blade.

_Now, to let it drip on the microdot... it won't hurt the negative, but it will dissove the glue... when it softens, I have to slide the blade under the dot... got it!_

Daniel transferred the dot to the glass slide then he placed its cover over the dot.

"Good job, son," his father told him. "Now, put it under the lense and you can see what it says."

Daniel began to followed the directions, but a "Uhm" from his mother froze the boy with the slide partially clamped to the microscope's stage.

"Alan," she said, " you should look at it first. We don't know who sent it or why. Perhaps it's something Daniel shouldn't see."

Daniel saw his father frown then nod in agreement.

"You're right. Sorry, son. Get that slide clamped down and I'll take it from there."

Daniel secured the slide with its dot then he stepped back from the workbench.

_Geez... I found it... I ought to get to read it first... Mom's being paranoid—no one would send secret information in a microdot and then forget to tell the recipient it was coming... which is pretty much the same thing Mom just said... so this could be a trick or a trap—maybe it's the FBI... but I'm still the one who found it..._

He watched his father remove his glasses. He then lowered the microscope's tube until it almost touched the slide before he looked into the eyepieces. Mr. Sutterfield said nothing as he adjusted the focus or while he read the microdot. After ten very long seconds had passed, each of which Daniel silently counted, his father leaned back from his stance over the microscope. The frown on his face made Daniel's stomach knot.

"You'd better read this, Clara," he told his wife. "I'm not sure what to make of it."

His mother removed her glasses and laid them on the bench. To see into the eyepiece of the microscope meant her standing on tiptoe, one hand adjusting the focus, the other steadying herself on her husband's arm. Daniel gritted his teeth to keep from blurting out his concerns.

_It's the FBI... they sent it to me... they figured that, if we weren't with the Committee, we'd never even think to look for secret messages... they're probably watching us right now—watching us prove we're—_

His mother's heels hit the basement floor with a _thunk._ Unlike her husband, her expression as she reached for her glasses was more of a wry smile.

"You know something I don't?" Mr. Sutterfield asked her.

"Possibly," she replied. "Daniel, this message is meant for you."

The boy hesitated a moment, unsure of what to do until his father shoved a wooden stool toward him. Daniel climbed onto the stool and knelt before the microscope.

_Take my glasses off... adjust the focus... make the words on the microdot legible... it's a hand-written letter... dated 15 March this year..._

**Dear Daniel,**

**My father told me our radio chess games have caused much trouble for you and your family.**

The boy drew back from the eyepiece in shock.

_It's Alla... it has to be Alla... she found a way to write me... a spy way to write me... wow... this is great..._

He raised his head then turned to face his parents.

_They're both smiling at me... although Dad's smile isn't as happy as Mom's is... maybe this isn't a good thing... I want it to be a good thing..._

"Why are you looking at us?" his mother asked. "Someone went to a lot of work to get a letter to you. You should read it."At her urging, Daniel returned to the microscope.

**I am very sorry about the FBI and your parents being angry with you. I asked my father if there was a way we could continue to be friends. He said that I would only cause you more troubles, but a few days later, he told me that he had a secure way to deliver letters to you. I know I did not tell you, but my father is an important man and very well thought of by the KPSS so I am certain you will receive this letter.**

**If you want to write me in return, I would like that very much. If you do decide to correspond with me, I promise to write back as many times as you write me. I am told you must reply with the same method my letter arrived to you.**

**If you want to continue our chess game, then my next move is Ne5. I hope you do. I very much enjoy playing with you. You are better than many of the students at our city's matches.**

**Please tell your parents I am sorry for the troubles I caused. I do not want them to be angry for us being friends.**

**Yours,**

**Alla**

Daniel sank back on his heels after reading Alla's letter.

_She wants to stay friends... she thinks I'm a good chess player... she wants me to write back..._

"Can I write her back?," he asked as he twisted around to face his parents. " Can you show me how to make microdots? I can put it in my letter to Ensio and Alla will get it and—"

His mother said, "Of course you—" just as his father said, "We'll have to talk—"

Daniel's joy wilted as his father gave his wife a puzzled frown.

"Clara," he said, "letting Daniel write back is risky. If the FBI finds out—"

"They won't find out," Daniel blurted. "I'll be very care—"

The glares both parents gave him for interrupting cut off his sentence.

"As I was saying," Mr. Sutterfield continued, "it's a risk, especially since we can't control who knows about this or who was responsible for it. We don't know Admiral Molchanov or the contacts he used in Finland and—"

He paused to peer at his wife.

"And didn't you just say you might know something about this?"

Mrs. Sutterfield's sly smile drew the attention of both Daniel and his father. They watched as she squared her shoulders, her smile widening into a grin.

"I might," she admitted, "have told Paul Lukin how he had broken Daniel's heart and that, if he ever wanted to enjoy my hospitality—and my _Kaiserschmarren__—_again, he must mend matters between our son and his friend."

Daniel immediately pictured his mother's signature dessert, sweetened egg pancakes chopped small and served with homemade plum butter.

_That's one mean threat… last time he was here, Mr. Lukin ate two whole platefuls of them…._

His father's laugh brought Daniel out of his thoughts.

"A threat impossible to ignore," he said between chuckles. "You sure know how to motivate, my dear."

Mr. Sutterfield then addressed his son.

"Daniel, if I can confirm Mr. Lukin put this in motion, then I'll feel better about letting you write Alla back. However, I am requiring you to spend as much time on your letter to that Finnish boy—what's his name?"

"Ensio," Daniel prompted.

"Right, Ensio. I don't want you acting like he's a means to an end even if he is one. It's always important to treat your assets well. A man will sell his soul without complaint and at a bargain-basement price if he's allowed to keep his dignity."

"Yes, sir," the boy replied. "I'll make sure my letters to Ensio are informative and friendly."

_It's not like I'm going to turn down a chance to have two penpals… two more friends…._

"Great," his father told him. "Now, turn off the light on the 'scope and leave everything where it is. All this spy stuff is making me hungry."

_Mom and I both laughed at his joke then we went upstairs to eat… after dinner, Dad made a call to the service Mr. Lukin used for his messages… he called Dad back about the time I finished loading the dishwasher… Mr. Lukin confirmed what Mom said… Dad said he asked if it was okay for him to come for dinner next week… Mom told Dad it was, but she was going to let a couple visits pass before making Kaiserschmarren for him…. _

That evening, Mr. Sutterfield showed Daniel how to affix a microdot to paper by replacing Alla's message on Ensio's letter.

_Dad said the reason for putting it back was in case the FBI knew about the microdot… with it back in place, I could claim I didn't know anything about it… it seemed like a lot of work, but Dad told me it always pays to be careful…._

The next afternoon, Daniel wrote Alla. That evening, he wrote Ensio.

_ I told Alla I didn't get into too much trouble—I didn't want her to worry… I also told her about school and about my favorite things to eat because we had been discussing her favorite food during our last conversation… and I made my next move in our game—Bg3… I wrote Ensio about my Cub pack and the ceremony taking us into the Boy Scouts coming up in May… we don't have Sea Scouts here but we do a lot of camping… which isn't too awful… at least my friends like it… I also told him about school and bike-riding and the stuff I do with Pete…._

With his father's help, the boy made copies of a photo taken of him a month earlier.

_It was Mom's birthday… rather than go out, Dad and I fixed a fancy dinner and served Mom like our kitchen was a Michelin-rated restaurant… I was the maitre d' in my best black suit and tie… Mom insisted Dad take a picture of me because I looked so handsome… Dad joked that we both looked like penguins in glasses, but I think we looked sharp… I made one copy for Alla and one for Ensio…._

Turning Alla's letter and the photo into microdots was more complicated than Daniel expected.

_I should have known… Dad taught me all about exposure times and focal lengths… to do this correctly I had to position Alla's letter, set up the appropriate lighting, compute the correct distance between the letter and the lens on Dad's special microdot camera… and then I had to wait the ten minutes it took to make each exposure… it's nothing like TV spy shows—no wonder Mom and Dad laugh at them… the camera we used is no bigger than a coat button… it takes ten exposures… Dad had me use all ten to make certain I had the technique down pat… developing the film was a real pain, too… when it was finished, I had four great microdots of Alla's letter, three of my photo, and three so-so ones… not one exposure was garbage…._

Daniel glued his microdots on periods at the end of the third and fifth sentences in his letter to Ensio.

_I don't have letterhead so I used the notepaper I write my letters to Mrs. Wren on—I guess she's a penpal, too… I now have three friends I can write to… that is so cool…._

Basement of the Sutterfield Residence  
>April 11, 1969<br>Day -11,954

Hours had passed since the Sutterfields had sat down to dinner with their guest, Paul Lukin. After the meal was eaten, the two men had headed downstairs to the darkroom, their work being interrupted only by Daniel's coming down to say "Good Night."

After he had hung the prints from the film Lukin had brought with him, Alan Sutterfield opened the refrigerator he used for film storage and beer.

"Want a cold one, Paul?" he asked.

"Don't mind if I do."

Alan grabbed two Falstaffs from the fridge then he handed one bottle to Lukin.

"Opener's on the wall behind you."

As soon as the beers were opened and the two men had settled onto their work stools again, Lukin noted that Alan's wife must still be angry with him.

"What makes you say that?" Alan asked.

"Clara served store-brand vanilla ice cream for dessert," Paul replied. "What's it take to get out of the dog house with her?"

Alan took a swig of beer then he chuckled.

"Time, usually. Give it a few years and Clara will forget how FBI agents sat at her kitchen table and questioned her son."

Lukin winced.

"You know I never meant for that to happen."

"Yeah, I know. Clara knows it, too, but she's fierce where Daniel's concerned."

Lukin raised his beer in a salute.

"Rightly so. That boy is special."

Alan matched the salute with his own bottle then he said, "I won't disagree."

"I only wish we'd found him sooner," Lukin said. "Capitalist notions are more thoroughly removed when the child is younger."

Alan waved Lukin's concern away with his free hand.

"There's nothing to worry about. Clara's got our son on a strict diet of solid Marxist reading—all of it in support of her language lessons just in case Daniel slips up about it—and it's working. He throws himself into our work, drinking it in like a human sponge, and he never forgets anything we teach him."

Lukin nodded as Alan continued to praise his son.

"Clara told me Daniel lied to those FBI agents like a pro—of course, she didn't know he was lying at the time. It was later before we learned how he had played them like a piano."

Alan paused to take another swig from his bottle then he said, "Paul, I can't say enough good about him. Our son is a natural."

"Which is why I hooked him up with Alla Molchanova," Paul told him. "Not only is her father well-connected, but both his father and his older brother are members of the Russian Academy of Science. They will be very helpful when Daniel applies to MIPT."

Alan grunted in protest.

" Clara," he noted, "has her heart set on Vienna's Technical Institute. Her brothers weren't able to finish their education thanks to the war so she wants Daniel to study there in their honor."

Lukin hid a sneer as he sipped his beer.

"Only the best get into Phystech," he said, using the Institute's nickname. "Not to say I'm worried about it, but, if Daniel makes it through the oral and written exams, the essay, and the interview, not only will it be a great honor for him, and you and Clara, but all his expenses will be paid. I doubt the _Technische Universität Wien _will be as generous."

Alan considered the possibility as he finished his beer.

"No, they won't," he admitted, "and I've been wondering how we were going to swing it financially."

"Then let me handle it," Lukin told him. "I'll work my contacts and get Daniel some solid backing in Moscow. You and Clara conitued to polish his Russian, teach him his history and doctrine, and let him follow that science bent of his. By the time he's sixteen and old enough for the exams, I've no doubt that Daniel will knock their socks off."


	12. The Splintered Son: Part One

En route to downtown Ferdinand, MO  
>Saturday, August 7, 1971<br>Day – 11,105

Since the first day of school was the following Wednesday, Mrs. Sutterfield had sent the men in her life to run errands and buy school clothes for Daniel.

_Now that I'm thirteen and starting eighth grade, Mom said I'm too old for her to pick out my clothing… but I'm not old enough yet to choose for myself… maybe I should find a part-time job so I can buy what I want to wear…._

Current fashion was a sticking point between Daniel and his parents.

_They want me to be look like everyone else… right now, that's bell-bottoms, polo shirts, and penny loafers with no pennies… it changes every few months… I want to wear slacks, starch in my shirts, and ties… school is my work and I want to look professional... sure, I get some kidding, but everyone knows I'm a geek so no one really cares if I dress the part… but Mom and Dad want me to fit in… it's part of the protective coloration required for Midwestern spy families…._

Daniel spent the first few minutes of the drive into town wondering when his father would start another round in the flared jeans argument. To his surprise, Mr. Sutterfield instead complimented him.

"I heard from Mr. Lukin last night," he told Daniel. "He said the top man on the Committee's totem pole, the one you called 'the root node,' was very impressed with the communication structure you thought up for foreign agents."

Daniel grinned at the praise.

_All I did was devise a better reporting structure… I hated to point it out, but Mr. Lukin and his people—and that includes Mom and Dad—are acting more like a family than a spy network… dropping by for dinner, cook-outs in the backyard… I know we have to blend in and act like average suburbanites, but everyone knows everyone else… if an agent were caught, the entire organization could be compromised… the Committee needs to switch to a compartmentalized structure—one that permits agents to communicate without unnecessary risk... one that has a way to route emergency contact around compromised agents… I devised a network of interlinked cells that will provide both security and flexibility… it's based on open pyramids of tetrahedrons…._

"That's great, Da—"

His voice cracked on the "Dad." Daniel clamped his mouth shut. Mr. Sutterfield chuckled.

"Told you that was coming," he said. "First you outgrow your clothes, then your voice changes, then you sprout facial hair and have to spend the rest of your life shaving."

Daniel felt his face warm.

_I wish that was all there was to it… my voice and body changing and the dreams—they're getting really strange… and it's a good thing Mom taught me how to do my own laundry… I'd hate for her to see my bed linen…._

"Don't worry too much about it," his father continued. "Half the human race goes through what you're going through. They survive it, and so will you."

Daniel swallowed before speaking in the hope that it would help.

"Okay, Dad. I'll try not to."

"I know we've been over this subject a few times, but I'm here if you have any questions or just want to gripe about not being born a girl."

Daniel shook his head so hard his glasses bounced.

"No way would I want to be a girl," he replied. "Shaving looks easy compared to what they have to do."

_Not to mention they change more than boys do… not that I'm complaining… I saw Shelly Morrison last week at Pete's ball game… first time since school let out and wow—she looked hot…._

The memory of Shelly, clad in hot pants and a rather tight olive green Hang Ten shirt, sitting in the bleachers two rows above Daniel triggered a number of physiological reactions, the least of which was extreme embarrassment.

_Stop thinking about her… look out the window… talk to Dad… talk to him about… about… about what we were talking about…._

"I'm glad the Committee liked my idea," he told his father. "I based it on the junctures of an open pyramid of tetrahedrons so it has the redundancies necessary for security. I know it will be a hassle to implement it, but compartmentalizing the agents this way is worth the additional security."

To Daniel's surprise, his father frowned before replying.

"I didn't say your system would be used," his father told him. "I said you impressed everyone with your work. That's no small feat, son."

"But, why not use it?"

"Because," his father replied, "restructuring the entire North American continent would not only be prohibitively expensive, it also would be a security risk in and of itself. Too many new phone numbers, too many people changing their habits and ways of doing business. We're better off hiding in plain sight, happy and lucky that the U.S. of A. has little to no interest in spying on its citizens."

Daniel slumped in his seat and folded his arms across his chest in a show of annoyance.

_Stupid Committee… serve them right if the Feds busted a few of their agents—not Mom and Dad, of course… but they need to be shaken up… when I'm running my own company, I won't let my people get so sloppy… I'll run things efficiently…_

His father's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"I know it stinks, Daniel. I can't count the number of good suggestions I've made in my life that were turned down. How about a treat to help the bad taste go away?"

Daniel sneered at the offer

_First you're talking about me shaving—now, you're acting like a lollipop will make everything better… c'mon, Dad… I'm not a kid anymore…._

He said nothing in reply. His father signaled a left turn onto Maple Avenue then he drove three more blocks before pulling into an open parking space on the street.

"We're here," he announced.

Daniel checked his surroundings, noting the shops on the street.

_Lanie D's Ice Cream Shoppe… LaGrange Insurance Agency… Callie's Beauty Salon… Oxford Stationery Supply… across the street is Ferdinand Men's Shop, Oldham's Florist, and Bon Ton Beauty Parlor with Café d'Paris Bakery on the corner….I_

Puzzled, he turned toward his father.

"I thought we were going to Penny's for school clothes."

His father undid his seat belt.

"We are, but Mr. Egorov is only open until noon today."

Daniel's head swiveled back to the tailor shop.

_Ferdinand Men's Shop, A. Egorov, Proprietor… does that mean no bell-bottoms?_

"After all," his father continued, "eighth grade is when you start going to school dances and other important functions. You'll need a suit."

Daniel hurried to get out of the car and into the store. Ferdinand Men's Shop was small, but well-furnished with racks of jackets and slacks awaiting their purchasers. One wall was devoted to shirting and accessories: belts, ties, suspenders, and pocket squares while a raised mirrored alcove at the back allowed the tailor to fit his customers while they watched him work his magic.

_Turned out that Dad and Mr. Egorov knew each other… Dad greeted him in really bad Russian and Mr. Egorov told him in English to stop abusing his ears… when Dad introduced me, I gambled that the tailor and Dad were both Committee members and greeted him as _'Tavarishch.…'

"It's a good thing no one else is in the shop, young man," Mr. Egorov chided him. "However, you are correct; your father and I are _poputchika__,_ fellow travelers. Now, what may I do for you?"

_What he did for me was a suit… it wasn't bespoke, but it was tailored to fit me—four feet, ten inches, ninety pounds… a charcoal gray solid with a two-button jacket in a very classic design… Mr. Egorov recommended I wear white Egyptian cotton long-sleeved dress shirts with it then he handed me a muted blue Paisley tie…._

"A bit of color and pattern never hurts," he told Daniel, "and a nod to modern fashion tells the world you know what is current even if you don't care to follow trends. You wear this and even the most hippy-chick of girls will wink her eye at you."

Daniel blushed at the idea of girls noticing him. His father cleared his throat.

"Alexei, if you don't mind, I'd like those girls to hold off for a year or two."

"They will hold off," Mr. Egorov said with a smile at Daniel, "but only until next Saturday, when your son's suit will be ready. After that, I make no promises for his safety except to say that there are worse fates than being kissed to death."

_It's a good thing Dad and left when we did… I felt like I was going to melt from embarrassment… but, I was getting a real suit—an adult suit… I told Dad how happy I was… and I told him how impressed I was by Mr. Egorov—he was precise, meticulous, and extremely knowledgeable…._

"You should think about working for him," his father said as he and Daniel walked toward their car. "His son helps him now, but Sergei will be heading for college about the time you're old enough for a part-time job. Since Alexei likes you, and you like suits, it might be a good fit, so to speak."

"Okay, Dad. I'll do that."

Daniel expected they would next head to the department store for his school clothes...

_I guess I can let Dad talk me into some jeans… it's the least I can do since he's getting me a suit and shirts and two ties…._

… but Mr. Sutterfield stopped on the sidewalk before reaching the station wagon.

"I need a couple things from the hardware store," he told Daniel, "and it's gorgeous out today. How about a little Fox and Goose?"

Daniel greeted the suggestion with a grin.

_We haven't played that game in months… Dad used it to teach me how to tail people and how to shake a tail… basically, the fox has to catch the goose before the goose gets to the goal… we started with the fox having to lay a hand on the goose like in Tag… when I got better at it, Dad changed the rules… now, the fox only has to see the goose… it makes it so much harder this way…._

"Sure, Dad," he replied. "Can I be the goose?"

Mr. Sutterfield nodded.

"I'll close my eyes and count to twenty by hippotamuses then give you thirty minutes to get to Kinloch Hardware. If I spot you or if you're even a second late, I win."

"No way you're winning, Dad," Daniel told him.

The two synchronized their watches then Mr. Sutterfield counted down to the start of the game.

"… three, two, one—go!"

Daniel took off down Maple Avenue, hurrying past the first two shops then ducking into the third.

_Lanie D's Ice Cream… the owner is Mr. Clemens, my assistant scout leader… his kids work the counter on the weekends… according to the rules, Dad has to stay between the starting point and the hardware store while I can go anywhere I want… I could even take a cab—if we had cabs here in Ferdinand, which we don't… the hardware store is six blocks away and it has two entrances—front and back… doesn't matter if he's inside or outside—Dad can't watch them both at once… all I have to do is see which door he's watching then avoid him and use the other one…._

Daniel waved at Meg Clemens, a nine-grader who was best friends with Pete's sister Karen. She was scooping tangerine sherbet into a waffle cone for a customer.

"Dad and I are coming in later," he told her. "Can I use your restroom?"

Meg sighed as she reached for another scoop of sherbet.

"Sure," she said, "so long as you come back and buy something. You know the restroom is only for customers."

Daniel bit back a retort.

_Bossy ninth-grader… Pete's sister is the same way…._

After promising to return, Daniel bypassed the restrooms and opened the door to the back of the shop. No one was present to see him hurry through the rear exit to the alley beyond it.

_Okay, now to double back so I can see which route Dad is taking…._

He jogged to the end of the alley then turned left at First Street. Before he reached the corner at Maple Avenue, he paused to look through the display window of the bakery at the spot where the game had begun. Mr. Sutterfield was no longer on the sidewalk where Daniel had left him.

_He's wearing a red Madras shirt and jeans… all I have to do is find him then stay out of his field of view…._

No one matching his father's description was in sight. Daniel remained where he was, observing as people entered and exited the shops he could see.

_There—a man stopped on his way into Tony's Barber shop… looks like he's talking to someone… now, he's gone inside, but no one has come out… maybe Dad is hiding there, waiting to see if I'll double back…._

Daniel's suspicion paid off two minutes later when Mr. Sutterfield emerged from the doorway of the barber shop. The boy pressed himself against the bakery window, but his father turned left, the direction of the hardware store. He waited until his father had walked to the next intersection and turned left onto Oak Avenue before heading in that direction.

_Following people is harder than it looks… you have to watch in case they turn around or stop… and you have to be aware of everyone else around you… I have to remember not to get distracted… losing my quarry is bad… running into someone is bad, too.…_

Daniel turned the corner onto Oak Avenue, slowing his pace as he looked for a man in a red plaid shirt.

_And I've lost him… better double-back and change direction… Dad could be lying in wait for me…._

Daniel retraced his path to First Street then walked the five blocks to Sycamore Avenue, one block past the hardware store. There, he ducked behind a parked car, peering through its windows to survey the area.

_The hardware store is behind Murphy's Auto Repair across the street… I don't see Dad, but I have eight minutes to figure out where he is and then around him and inside…._

Murphy's Auto Repair was three doors from Daniel's hiding place; it shared the rear property line with Kinloch Hardware. Daniel made his way along the line of parked cars, casing each store front then pausing to make sure his father wasn't inside the repair shop's service bay.

_Don't want any of the mechanics to see me, either… Dad might have asked them to look out for me… it's not in the rules, but it's not forbidden… sometimes Dad gets tricky…._

No one at the repair shop was paying the boy any attention so Daniel quickly crossed Sycamore Avenue and headed for the outside back corner of the shop. From there, he saw the rear of Kinloch's, the chain-link fence that separated it from the auto repair, and a white Ford F600 wrecker backed against the fence.

_I can use that truck for cover while I see if the coast is clear…._

After another check of his surroundings, Daniel ran to the truck. He pressed himself against the truck's rear fender as he peered past its wrecker bar at his goal.

_I can see into the two sheds that hold Kinloch's mulch and animal feed… no sign of Dad in either one… no sign of him by the back door… and he's not at the gate on Sixth Street… I think I'm good… all I have to do is jump the fence and head inside…._

He grabbed the top of the fence and stuck his the toe of his sneaker through the mesh. Just as he was about to swing himself over the top, he heard a word that froze him on the fence.

"Gotcha."

Daniel twisted frantically as he sought his father's hiding place.

_I can't see him… he's not in the shop… he's not on the other side of the fence… he's not—oh, crap…._

There, not ten feet behind the boy, was Mr. Sutterfield, his head stuck through the open window of the truck cab. His wide grin made Daniel's loss that much more galling.

_I didn't check to see if anyone was in the truck… I know better—which is what Dad's about to tell me…._

"You should have looked in here, son," his father admonished him. "Always check the interior of vehicles. Someone may be hiding in a back seat or a truck cab."

Daniel groaned at the advice.

"I know, Dad. I know."

Mr. Sutterfield swung the driver's door open then he jumped out, giving a '_oof' _ as his feet hit the ground."I know you know, which is why you shouldn't have lost."

Daniel bore the criticism with good humor.

_Can't say I don't deserve it… and it's a good thing this was only a game…_

Residence of the Bennett Family  
>Sunday, August 8, 1971<br>Day – 11,104

Daniel and Pete were sitting on the grass, backs against the largest oak in the Bennett's backyard, its dappled shade and two large plastic tumblers filled with iced lemonade keeping the afternoon heat at bay.

_We were comparing school clothes… Pete got new Levi's and some Izod shirts and a pair of cordovan penny loafers… I managed to convince Dad I didn't need new shoes yet, thus avoiding the dreaded slip-ons… as my penalty for losing at Fox and Goose, Dad bought me two pair of Wranglers, which he made me promise not to leave hanging in my closet—but he didn't say how often or how long I had to wear them… here's hoping I have P.E. first period so I can switch to slacks afterward…._

"And," Daniel told his friend, "I got three pair of khaki slacks, a pair of running shoes and some sweats so I can practice for the cross-country try-outs, and a suit from the men's shop over on Maple."

Pete's look of dumbfounded shock bordered on jealousy.

"A real tailor-fitted suit? Hell, Mom bought my suit at Sears and she hemmed the slacks herself."

"Well, your mother can sew," Daniel noted. "I've never seen my mom with a needle. She takes the mending to the dry cleaners and has them do it."

"Yeah, I remember the job she did on your badge sash for our first court of honor. It was really gnarly."

"Yeah, I guess it was, but hey—she tried."Not wanting to say anything else against his mom, Daniel took a gulp of his lemonade and let silence signal the need for a new topic of conversation. After a minute and a swallow from his own glass, Pete changed the subject.

"Did I tell you my uncle Luke lives here now?"

Daniel shook his head.

"Yeah, he moved last month from Buffalo. He started a new job doing Braille proof-reading for a company that prints books for the blind."

"Your uncle's blind?"

"Has been all his life. Thing is, he asked me to help him with something and I'm not sure it's legal. Do you think you could go to his place with me tomorrow?"

Daniel stared at his friend.

"What kind of illegal?" he asked.

"Uh—"

Pete drew the single syllable out until he ran out of breath. Daniel leaned closer.

"Drugs? Stolen cars? Counterfeit Boy Scout badges?"

The joke broke Pete's tense mood. He broke into a grin then said, "No, nothing like that. Do you know that some people know how to make free long-distance calls?"

"No, but I bet I know how they do it," Daniel replied. "There's a set of twelve tones at that the phone company uses to control its switching equipment. If you know what those tones were, you probably could make the switching equipment do anything you wanted."

Daniel halted his explanation because Pete's mouth had dropped open.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Someday," Pete said with a smile. " I'm gonna stump you with a question. How do you know this?"

"Dad brought me a stack of old Bell System Technical Journals he'd gotten from someone at work. One of the articles was titled 'In-band Single-Frequency Signaling,' which explained how telephone calls are routed through Ma Bell's trunk lines. It didn't describe the frequency of the tones used so I couldn't try it for myself."

"Well, my uncle says there was a man he knew in Buffalo who would whistle into the phone then he could call anyone anywhere and he never got billed for the calls. He helped Uncle Luke call and talk to Dad on Sundays."

Pete looked over his shoulder at his house then he checked Daniel's house before lowering his voice.

"When he moved here, my uncle ordered a device that's supposed to make the same sort of free calls, but he said it's hard to use and poorly made. He wants me to help him make copies of it—sort of a 'build a better mousetrap and you'll make lots of money' deal. That's why I asked you. You know more about electronics than I do."

Daniel considered the idea while sipping his lemonade.

_I can see why it's probably against the law—the phone company loses money every time their phone lines get hijacked like that… I should say 'No,' because Mom and Dad will freak if I get in trouble with the FBI again… but I'd like to know how if it's really possible to make free phone calls… Dad said the reason the Committee wouldn't implement my cell structure was the expense—too many new phone numbers… if we could use the phone lines for free, it would eliminate that objection…._

He set his glass down, screwing it into the grass to keep it upright.

"Sure," he told Pete, "I'll go with you. Sounds like fun."

1251 Linden Avenue, Apartment 102  
>Monday, August 9, 1971<br>Day -11,103

1251 Linden was an old Victorian house that, judging from the four black mail boxes mounted by the ornate front door, had been divided into four apartments.

_The driveway led to the rear of the building… Pete and I left our bikes at the side of the house… Apt. 102 had a covered porch and a set of French doors with a doorbell on the right of them…_

Daniel took a canvas roll that held an assortment of screwdrivers and sockets from his bike bag.

_Dad gave me that to hold my small tools… he prefers them to tool boxes—says they're quieter and easier to stash…_

He followed Pete up the two steps to the porch. While Pete pushed the doorbell, Daniel peered through the panes of the French door.

_One large room with a corner kitchenette... lots of windows on the right and left walls and two interior doors opposite me—bathroom and bedroom, maybe? Furniture was a couch that faced us and an easy chair that faced away from us… between the two was an end table without a lamp… near the kitchenette was a wooden table and four chairs… there were lots of bookcases filled with sets of books—they all looked taller than normal books… and there's a white cane leaning to my right inside the door…._

At the doorbell's chime, someone rose from the easy chair.

"That's Uncle Luke," Pete whispered. "He's my dad's youngest brother."

Lucas Bennett was in his late twenties. His blond hair curled up on his shirt collar and the only sign of his blindness was a fixed, distant gaze that was heedless of whomever was addressing him. When he opened the door, he stared over the boys' heads as though expecting taller visitors.

"Talk to me," he said.

"It's me, Uncle Luke," Pete told him. "I brought my friend Daniel with me."

The young man tipped his head then smiled.

"Hello, nephew, Daniel. Come on in. You want some pop?"

He stepped back from the door, giving the two boys room walk past him. When both boys took him up on his offer, Mr. Bennett fetched cans of generic cola from his fridge while Daniel and Pete took their seats at the table.

"I'm told the windows let in plenty of sunlight," he replied, 'but I do have a flashlight if you need it."

"Thanks," Pete told him, "but we're fine."

"Did you tell your friend what I want to do?"

"I did," Pete replied. "Turns out Daniel knows a whole bunch about telephone switching because he reads tech journals for fun."

Daniel felt his cheeks warm as Mr. Bennett chuckled.

"I hope you read them for fun and for profit," he told Daniel.

He then returned to the kitchen counter to pick up a blue plastic box, which he set in between the boys before taking his seat. The box was the size of an large index card and just over two inches thick. Its face was covered with twelve push buttons set in four rows of three. Four screws, one in each corner of the plate with the buttons, held the box together. A foot of plastic-coated wire connected the box led to a metal disk that Daniel recognized as the speaker from a telephone handset_._

"I ordered this," Mr. Bennett told the boys, "from a place out West. It works, but it's feels cheap—not well made."

Daniel picked up the box, holding it out so that Pete could also examine it.

"Somebody put it together with a hot screwdriver," Pete noted. "One of those screws is crooked."

Mr. Bennett nodded his agreement with his nephew's assessment.

"I felt that first thing," he said. "Can you open it up and see what the guts look like for me?"

Daniel untied his tool roll.

"All I can do is describe what's inside. I didn't bring a meter to test the components."

Mr. Bennett stared at Daniel for a moment.

"You know how to test circuitry?"

Daniel nodded. When Pete elbowed him in the arm, the boy realized his mistake. Before he could reply aloud, his friend spoke.

"Daniel's the smartest guy I know, Uncle Luke. He aces all the classes at school, and he has twice as many Scout badges as anyone in our troop. He knows German and French, he has his amateur radio license, he can develop photos, and he fixed Kathy's record player when Prince peed on it."

The man's _'hmm'_ sounded very impressed.

_I guess, when what I can do is listed like that, it is impressive, but it's not that big a deal… it's thanks to Mom and Dad that I'm well-taught…._

Daniel picked up a Phillips-head screwdriver.

_Time to get to work…._

"Would you like me," he asked, "to tell you what I'm doing as I do it?"

"That would be helpful."

"Okay."

As Pete watched and his uncle listened, Daniel removed the face of the box, exposing its guts: a circuit board with the twelve push buttons and an assortment of capacitors, diodes, and resistors. The ends of the telephone wire were attached to a capacitor and a ground. A nine-volt battery provided its power.

"I've taken the front off," he announced, "and I'm taking the circuit board out of the box."

Daniel used a flat-head screwdriver to lift the edge of the board. To his surprise, it was not attached and came out easily. He flipped it over to show Pete its underside.

_Whoever assembled this should never be allowed within a mile of a soldering iron…._

"You're right about the workmanship," he told Uncle Arthur. "Calling it crap is being polite."

For Pete's benefit, Daniel used his screwdriver as a pointer as he explained.

"The dull color on these solder cones means the solder never got hot enough to bond to the component leads. That means there's a chance those joints could fracture, making the component lose electrical contact. Now, on the underside—"

Daniel flipped the board over.

"There's a bluster in the board's surface by that through-hole. That's where the tip of the iron rested too long and overheated the pad."

"Is that bad?" Mr. Bennett asked.

"Yes, and it's proof that whoever made this is a cack-handed imbecile," Daniel replied.

Pete choked back a laugh.

"A what?"

"It's what my mom says when she sees bad workmanship," Daniel explained, "and when she thinks I'm not in hearing distance."

"If it's as bad as you say," Mr. Bennett noted, "then you're free to call him whatever you want. Is there anything else?"

Pete picked up the litany of problems from Daniel.

"There's something that might be old mayonnaise by that five–volt regulator. None of the leads are trimmed right, and the board should be fastened inside the box, not flopping around loose."

"It's clear that someone slapped this together," Daniel added. "May I asked what you paid for this?"

"One hundred and seventy, plus shipping and handling," Mr. Bennett replied.

Pete gasped.

"That's a lot of money, Uncle Luke."

_It sure is—the average national weekly wage is only twice that…_

Mr. Bennett folded his hands before him then he stared at the air above Daniel's head.

"That's why I expected a quality product. Even crooks should have some standards. Now, if you wanted to sell something like this, how would you build them?"

Daniel pondered the question for a moment then he replied, "First of all, I'd dig out those tech journals Pete mentioned so I could make sure that what this box does conform to the specs the phone company uses. Then, I'd draw a schematic for this circuit board."

He then picked up the board.

"I'm certain I could improve on this—low-profile buttons and more robust components in a more efficient layout. After I drew up new schematics, I'd do some research to source the best parts at the lowest price. As soon as I knew what it will cost to build a given quantity of the new design, I'd see how other people price their products to help me determine what I should price mine at. At that point, it's a matter of marketing the device to the right consumer demographic: those who make a lot of long-distance calls and who will use the device correctly to minimize the risk of getting caught."

Mr. Bennett drew back as though surprised at Daniel's answer. His gaze shifted to the space over his nephew's head.

"Pete, are you sure your friend isn't the CEO of IBM in disguise?"

Pete laughed.

"Daniel talks like that all the time, Uncle Luke. You get used to it."

Daniel raised an eyebrow at his friend.

_Used to it? I'm going to remind you of this next time you need your math homework explained…._

Pete ignored Daniel as he asked, "You only use this box at payphones—right?"

"Usually," his uncle replied. "Ma Bell gets nasty when her customers don't pay for her services. It's safer to use this where it can't be traced back to me."

Daniel hid a smile.

_Mr. Bennett sounds like my Dad… he says the prime directive isn't 'Do no harm'—it's 'Don't get caught….'_

"So," Pete continued, "we should also come up with a way to disguise it—make it look like something not used to make phone calls. That way, you won't look like you're doing what you're actually doing."

Daniel blinked at his friend.

_And I'm supposed to be the spy kid..._

To cover his dismay at missing the obvious, Daniel asked, "Do you have any idea how many of these boxes we can sell?"

Mr. Bennett pursed his lips as though deep in thought.

"I did some nosing around. If you take into account foreign students, people with relatives overseas, people who do business in other countries, et cetera—I'm thinking at least two thousand, maybe more."

Daniel quickly did the math.

_At two thousand units sold at $170 each, that's $340,000 in gross income… if we can keep the production costs under $50 per box, that's almost a quarter-million in profit… split it three ways and we each get $80,000… that will definitely cover going to college wherever I decide to go—Stanford, MIT, even that technical university in Vienna Mom keeps talking about…. _

Pete's slack-jawed expression showed he had reached the same conclusion.

"Two thousand," he repeated. "Wow."

His uncle said, "I figured you and I would make some copies of this box and sell them locally but, with both you and Daniel working with me, I think we can handle that number. Now—"

Mr. Bennett drew in a deep breath. Both boys leaned across the table, eager to hear what he would say.

"—as far as I know, building and selling these boxes isn't illegal, but using them is. Since you're both kids, I don't think the police will concern themselves with you even if they do crack down on these boxes. I'm willing to take the risk, but are you willing to work with me, even if it means fibbing to your parents?"

Daniel caught Pete's gaze.

_He's chewing it over… I know I'm in—if only because that box is a sin against quality craftsmanship… it's not like my parents can complain about me doing something shady… except they'll freak if the FBI comes after me again… so I better do everything I can to avoid getting caught…._

He bit back his answer to let Pete speak first.

_He's really chewing this over…._

Finally, Pete reached a conclusion.

"That kind of money," he said, "means Dad and Mom won't have to worry about paying for college. That's worth it to me. Uncle Luke, I'm in."

"So am I," Daniel added.

Mr. Bennett's smile was a slow, crooked curve as though he rarely had opportunity to use it.

"Thank you," he told them. "Now, shall I get us another round of pop so we can toast our new venture?"

Over fresh cans of cola, the three of them agreed on some basic details.

_We decided to call our endeavor LPD Enterprises… our initials, of course… Mr. Bennett said he'd arrange a bank account and a P.O. box… I couldn't offer to do it because I'm not supposed to know about renting boxes and phony addresses… Pete's going to come up with a good exterior for our product and a catchy name… he's not much with numbers, but Pete has a knack for slogans and stuff like that… so we made him the advertising and marketing manager… I'm the production manager… and my first job is to design a better blue box… let's hope the world beats a path to our door—but not the Feds… let's hope they stay the heck away from us…._


	13. The Splintered Son: Part Two

Author's Notes

Story updates may be posted less frequently than in the past. My apologies, but Real Life intrudes. I promise this story will not be abandoned.

_Heathkit: _Build-it-yourself radio equipment, electrical testers, hi-fi (not wi-fi) and stereos; see

Philmont

: Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico, the world's largest youth camp (in area)

_Nimzowitsch variation_: an opening strategy in chess. _Petrosian vs. Petrovsky, Leningrad, _is an actual match

_GDP:_ Gross Domestic Product—the total dollar value of all goods and services produced over a specified time period. It is one of the primary indicators of the health of a country's economy.

_Southwestern Bell: _ the division of AT&T that provided local and regional phone service to Arkansas, Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, and portions of Illinois

Residence of the Sutterfield Family  
>Monday, November 27, 1972<br>Day – 10,628

Dear Ensio,

… Last Thursday was Thanksgiving here. Everyone celebrates with a roast turkey dinner and a day spent in front of the television watching the Macy's parade from New York City then college football games. The day commemorates the Pilgrims, who were early colonists in the New England states, being thankful they didn't die of starvation because they landed far north of where they thought they would end up. You sail so I know you understand how hard it must have been to navigate back then….

… I'm thinking about asking Peggy Marston to the ninth grade Christmas dance. She noticed I was wearing a new tie and she said she really like it. We started talking and I ended up walking her to Home Ec—that's a course girls take here. If I ask her, I'll let you know how it goes….

… I'm glad you're thinking about a Heathkit assembly business. It's really working out for Pete and me. Pete put an ad in the sports sections of the local papers offering to finish uncompleted projects and now we're paying friends to help us fill the orders. Lots of people start a kit then decide it's easier to let someone else finish it. We're also branching out into calculator repair. Most of the repairs involve replacing the LED display, which isn't too hard now that I have a source for the part. If you want, I'll send you everything I've learned about the TI-2500 and the SR-10 so you can repair them, too….

… I really hope your troop goes to Philmont this summer. I'll ask our scoutmaster if our troop can arrange to go there for summer camp, too. If we can't, I know my parents are considering a trip to California for vacation this coming summer. I'll see if we can drive there through New Mexico so I can meet you in person….

Dear Alla,

Did you really think I wouldn't recognize the Nimzowitsch variation of the Bogo-Indian Defense? Petrosian vs. Petrovsky, Leningrad, 1946. As you shall see, it's not a sure thing for white. My move is d5….

…Mom and Dad and I saw "1776," a musical about the American Revolution. I guess seeing it was part of my parents' efforts to look like normal Americans because the movie wasn't very good either as entertainment or as history….

….When I asked about summer vacations, Dad made a crack about how it wasn't even winter yet, but he did say he and Mom were thinking about a trip to California this coming summer and maybe a trip to Washington, D.C. the summer after that. If we do go to D.C., I doubt I'll be allowed anywhere near the Soviet Embassy—normal American families might drive past it just to say they saw "a Commie," but it's not a tourist destination like the White House or the Smithsonian. If you are assigned to a consulate instead of the embassy, I'll find a way to travel to that city to see you….

Daniel managed to write both letters and reduce Alla's to a microdot before he had to listen for instructions on the radio.

_I really want to tell Alla about LPD Enterprises and how successful it is, but it's a bad idea to admit my 'capitalist' career is off to a rousing start… partially due to who she is and who her father is and partially because I'm not certain how many people read my letters to her—for all I know, the Committee has it diverted at the local post office so it can be vetted before it goes to Ensio and then Alla… if that's true, then my parents may be getting a copy… I haven't told them about the company or my earnings… I'm not sure how they'll react and I really want to surprise them by having my college paid for—which also will give me some leverage in the decision on which college I attend… Mom wants me educated in Vienna where her brothers didn't get a chance to graduate… I want to stay in the U.S… electrical engineering, maybe computer systems and definitely management courses… given the wide gap between what my parents want and what I want, it's better to never mention this side of me to anyone until I'm ready… I'm even using a different name for my bank accounts and company paperwork: David Sutter… it keeps the 'D' in LPD and isn't too far from my real name… and I checked—it's not fraud if I use it with no intent to defraud… David Sutter is my _nom de plume,_ so to speak…._

Truth was, as Daniel was very happy to note mentally if not in writing, LPD Enterprises was doing so well, Mr. Bennett had filed to incorporate in February.

_This means he, Pete, and I will no longer be personally liable for company losses—not that we've had any since we began this endeavor last year… we now have a 2,500 sq. ft. office/manufacturing space with twelve employees: three full-time, including an office manager, the rest part-time to handle the kit building and repair work, packing and shipping, and the bookkeeping and inventory… Mr. Bennett quit his job at the Braille publisher to run our company… he's on the corporate filing as president with Pete and me as the other officers— I can't wait until I'm eighteen so I can enter into contracts without an adult co-signer…. We had to wind down the blue box and phone hack side of production…. we're making more money from legitimate products… and the order for five hundred boxes from that Boston mob boss made all of us very nervous, especially when he sent his "boys" to take delivery …._

Daniel was alone in the house, his mother not having been home when he returned after school.

_I didn't find a note… that's odd, but Mom isn't as uptight about keeping track of me as she used to be… I am almost fourteen and a half—I'll be able to get my driver's license in one year, six months, and thirteen days…._

As someone else's theme music followed by a series of numbers came from the radio's speaker, Daniel affixed Alla's microdot to his letter to Ensio then he addressed its envelope.

_I really hope I get to meet Alla in person, but any chance that might happen is eighteen months away… Ensio is more likely… except that I'm not even sure I'll be a Scout by next summer… LPD is taking up a lot of my time and Dad mentioned again my working at Mr. Egorov's tailor shop… it's not like I need the money—not with my bank accounts and my brokerage account—Mr. Bennett helped me with them since I'm too young to sign contracts or to own financial instruments except in a trust managed by an adult… it's a bad time to be in stocks—we've been in a bear market since the year began… GDP growth is slowing, unemployment is climbing, price inflation is running around 8% … which means people are looking for ways to save money… there's a lot of money to be made by giving people what they want at a price they can afford to pay… and what they want is cheaper electronic products… Pete and I are looking into importing audio equipment from Japan to resell… Sony has been making cheap transistor radios and selling them here, but they're moving into higher-end digital multi-band radios... .I think we could sell a few of those to hams—just to get our foot in Sony's door… I'm also drawing up some ideas of my own… Mr. Bennett and I are meeting with a patent attorney next month…._

When six o'clock came and went without word from Mrs. Sutterfield, Daniel headed to the kitchen to start supper.

_I don't know what's keeping Mom, but Dad will be home soon… they'll like it if I make dinner for them… we're out of leftover turkey, but there's some ground beef in the fridge and two green peppers… I know we have chili powder and tomato sauce… if I make some rice, cook the meat and add diced onions, garlic, the green peppers and spices, I'll have Spanish rice—or as our scoutmaster calls it, Texas Hash... with a tossed salad, even Mom will think it's a decent dinner…._

Daniel had just put the meat and onions in a skillet on the stove when the phone rang. He reached for it then propped the handset between shoulder and ear so he could stir the mixture.

"Sutterfield Residence, Daniel speaking."

_"Daniel, it's Paul Lukin. Have you heard from your mother?"_

His grip on the wooden spoon tightened.

"No, sir. Is something wrong?"

There was silence then a muffled _"Clara hasn't called him"_ followed by an indistinct reply before Mr. Lukin's voice returned to the handset.

_"I was hoping you knew. I have a message from your mother that your father collapsed and was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. She wanted me to call you when you got home from school, but I wasn't able to get my messages until just a few minutes ago."_

Although it felt like he'd been turned to ice by the news, Daniel carefully set the spoon on the counter and repositioned the handset in case he had to take notes.

_Dad? Hospital? No— not Dad… I have to think… find out where Dad is…._

"Did Mom say which hospital?"

_"No, but I've got someone checking the hospitals to see where he was taken. As soon as I find out, I'll call you."_

Daniel nodded, more to see if he could move than in reply.

_Okay-Mr. Lukin has that under control… I guess I'd better get off the line in case Mom does call…._

"Thank you, Mr. Lukin. I'll wait for your call. Good—"

_"Wait, there's another matter. The Dornbergers are on their way to a conference in Chicago and I know they were planning to visit your family tonight. Because they're on the road, I can't reach them. Can you fill them in when they arrive?"_

Daniel glanced around the empty kitchen.

_Good… I need someone to keep me from worrying about Dad… and Mom… just in case something happened to her, too…._

"I'll get our spare room ready for them—that is, if Mom hasn't done so already. It's not a problem. I even have dinner started."

_Not that I'm hungry anymore… but maybe the Dornbergers will be…._

"Whatever you think best, Daniel,"

Mr. Lukin told him. "_I'll trust your judgment. Now, as soon as I know something, I will call you. Okay?"_

Daniel agreed then hung up quickly, just in case Mrs. Sutterfield was trying to call home.

_Maybe I should work on a home phone message system… something that would let people leave messages when the line is busy… wonder if I could interest __Southwestern Bell__in such a thing?_

Without giving the actions any thought, he turned the heat lower under the browning meat then ran upstairs to check the condition of the guest room.

_Looks like Mom has everything ready—the bed pillows are fluffed and there's clean towels in the bathroom…._

Back in the kitchen, Daniel went through the motions of making the Spanish rice. All the while, his mind raced through worries about his dad.

_A collapse like that sounds like a heart attack… but Dad shouldn't have had one—he's not old… forty-nine is not old… okay, it seems old sometimes, but it's not… not really… Dad doesn't smoke—or he hasn't since he left the Army… and he eats the right kinds of foods—except when Mom makes smothered pork chops or her schnitzels—and there's the bratwurst she gets from the German deli in Tower Grove… maybe we do eat a lot of fatty meat… Mr. Clemens' dad had a heart attack—a massive one and he died on the way to the hospital… that was last year… what is keeping Mom from calling? _

Daniel was putting the casserole dish into the oven when he heard a car—not his mother's VW— pull into the driveway. He set the timer then he went out the back door to greet his guests. Mrs. Dornberger, upon learning his troubles, enveloped Daniel in a big hug while she told him how awful it was and how he shouldn't worry.

Her husband was more practical.

"Let get of the boy," he told her, "and we'll go inside. Better to talk about problems where there's light and heat."

He also offered to find a motel for the night, but Daniel shook his head.

"Mom has your room ready and I've made dinner—that is, if you don't mind Spanish rice?"

"Not at all," Dr. Dornberger replied, "Spanish rice is the epitome of American cuisine."

_I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not, but he did have two helpings… I only pushed mine around my plate… Mrs. Dornberger urged me to eat, but I wasn't hungry… I kept looking at the kitchen phone as though I could will it to ring…._

Finally, as Dr. Dornberger was finishing his second plateful, the phone rang. Daniel shot out of his chair without so much as an "Excuse me" to answer it.

_It was Mom, calling from a payphone at the hospital… she said Dad had had a heart attack at work then another in the emergency room… the doctors used a defibrillator to reset his heart… he's resting okay now, but they want to operate him as soon as he's strong enough—tomorrow, maybe… Mom said she's going to stay with Dad tonight… she also said she was going to shred Mr. Lukin with her cheese grater for not calling me sooner… I told her he didn't get her message until almost dinner time and he did call me immediately afterward… I then handed the phone to Mrs. Dornberger after I told Mom I loved her…._

While the women talked, Daniel told Dr. Dornberger about his father.

"Ah," the man replied, "a myocardial infarction. Alan is fortunate he was taken to a hospital with the necessary equipment. That operation he needs is a coronary bypass. His surgeon will replace any damaged heart valves with vein sections taken from your father's leg. It's a marvelous procedure and only recently developed."

Daniel gaped at him as he wondered how a rocket propellant expert knew so much about heart attacks.

_ This must be how Pete feels when I start explaining things…._

Dr. Dornberger noticed the boy's expression.

"At my age, Daniel," he said, "it's safest to be informed about anything that could kill me. Now, not to diminish what has happened to your father, but Sonya was hoping she could have some film developed before we leave tomorrow. Can we impose on you?"

Daniel considered the request for a moment.

_ I don't see why not… it will keep me busy and I know Mrs. Dornberger really likes how Dad handles her work…._

"Of course, sir," he replied. "I'll do my best to meet her expectations."

The older man patted him on his shoulder.

"You were trained by the best. I've no doubt but that she'll be pleased—and she'd better be since this forces me to give up our chess game that I was looking forward to."

Daniel smiled at the complement then he promised to make time for chess on the Dornbergers' return stop.

Darkroom  
>Monday, November 27, 1972<br>Day – 10,628

_This is the boring part… shaking the developer tank for the correct number of seconds every minute for the correct number of minutes… each type of film requires a specific amount of time in the developer fluid… putting the film in the tank is not boring—that has to be done in total darkness… Dad uses a changing bag, a double-zipper lightproof bag with sleeves so your hands can do the transfer from the film's canister to the reel in the developer tank… it's all done by touch and takes practice… Dad had me learn with negatives outside the bag then I had to practice with the bag until he was certain I would not make a mistake… so putting the film in the tank is not boring, but timing and shaking it while it develops is boring. …_

As soon as the timer chimed, Daniel flushed out the developer tank with water to rinse the chemicals from the strip of film then he hung the strip to dry.

_Mrs. Dornberger's negatives… next step is to enlarge and print them for her… I wonder if she finally found her Ivory-billed woodpecker…._

To his surprise, only the first dozen frames of the film showed birds. The last twenty-four were diagrams and schematics of what looked a space ship with large external fuel tanks. Daniel stared dumbfounded at the strip for a moment then he laughed.

_Of course… I should have realized—the one couple I thought were actual friends of my parents really are spies…all these years and I totally missed it…._

He shook his head as though the fact was nothing.

_Well, it is since there's nothing I can do about it—I'm sure as hell not turning them in… that would be the same as ratting out my parents… and I can't arrange a darkroom accident to spoil these negatives—after all the training and practice I've had, no one would believe it was an accident… so I have to help my parents' oldest friends steal NASA secrets for the Soviets… to be blunt, I'm screwed…._

Daniel continued the process of printing Mrs. Dornberger's photos: he fed the negatives through the enlarger and made the prints just the way his father had taught him.

_This has to be the Space Shuttle… President Nixon announced the project last year… Dad's company submitted a design, but the government chose to work with a competitor… stupid government… I'm probably the only kid who's gotten a good look at the plans… I ought to be impressed… except it's not like I can tell anyone…._

As soon as the prints were completed, Daniel put them and their negatives in a manila envelope then he carried it upstairs. The Dornbergers were in the family room watching the Tonight Show from the couch. At his arrival, Mrs. Dornberger stood and held her hands out.

"Thank you so much, Daniel. You don't know what this means."

He gave her the envelope as he said, "Yeah, I think I do know. Those are some really impressive photos."

Mrs. Dornberger's shy smile showed she took his remark as a compliment.

"Thank you," she told him. "They are the result of months of planning and some very good luck."

Dr. Dornberger grunted then said, "The act of planning creates its own luck, Sonya. Good planning has good luck. Inept plans have bad luck."

She turned and stuck her tongue out at him then she said, "Of course, Manfred. Still, if your office partner had not left his keys—"

Dr. Dornberger smiled as he shook his head at his wife's impudence.

"I doubt Daniel is interested in the mechanisms of your work, dear. In fact, he probably would like to relax after all you've had him do this evening."

Mrs. Dornberger turned back to Daniel.

"I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. Would you like to join us? Maybe some ice cream?"

Daniel held his expression as neutral as possible at the thought of Sonya Dornberger, surprise spy, offering him ice cream in his own house.

"Thank you, but all I really need is for you to call my school tomorrow morning and tell them about Dad so I can be absent. I'm sure Mom wants me to be with her if Dad's going to have surgery."

"Of course, dear. Anything you need."

Daniel smiled his gratitude then wished the Dornbergers a good night. As soon as he was in his bedroom, he shut the door. Too many emotions and thoughts were running through his mind for clear thinking. Daniel sat at his desk and tried to sort through them.

_I really want to go back downstairs and yell at the Dornbergers for being spies and not friends… and I want to yell at Dad for almost dying and Mom for not calling school and getting me out of class so she could tell me what happened—I know Mr. Lukin is a family friend as well as her boss, but I'm her son… I'm old enough to handle things… I proved that by taking care of the Dornbergers this evening—making dinner and helping to steal the plans for my country's Space Shuttle…._

That thought put a huge lump in Daniel's throat.

_As mad as I am, I have to admit the Dornbergers never told me they weren't spies—I assumed that one on my own… it's like Mom and Dad… they didn't lie about their work back when I figured it out … but they always use euphemisms for what they do… they make it seem like a game—Fox and Goose, Hide the Dead Drop, the Committee, supporting foreign agents—no one ever says, "I'm tailing a spy," "I'm hiding a coded message for a spy," "I work for the Soviet Union as a spy…."_

The lump shifted down to become a knot in his stomach.

_They never told me, "Hey, Daniel—we're raising you to be a traitor to your country"… they just give me German reading assignments from Marx and Hegel, and Russian reading assignments on how wonderful the USSR is – I'm surprised I wasn't taught Chinese so I could read Chairman Mao's Quotations in the original… they ask me to listen for coded messages from Moscow… then I pass those messages on to people who steal government secrets… I develop photos of things so classified I could be jailed for knowing those projects even exist… I've been ducking it, but I have to face the truth… like it or not, I'm a spy… I don't want to be one… I don't want to be a communist… I like capitalism—I couldn't start something like LPD in the USSR… I couldn't make money and own stocks and build a corporate empire in the USSR… and that's what I want to do when I'm an adult… Mom calls them 'robber barons,' but that's exactly what I want to be... President and Chief Executive Officer with the bespoke suits and the corner office with a panoramic view of the city outside my windows… I want to run things and build things and make the world better… communism doesn't do that—it only makes everything the same… it doesn't build—it levels…._

The knot tightened until it felt like a snake constricting him.

_But I'm a kid… there's nothing I can do to change my life… there's no way I can tell Mom and Dad "I hate what you do and I want to stop" because there is no way to stop—not unless I call the FBI… I'll never do that to Mom and Dad… they chose me when no one else wanted me… and especially now, with Dad in the hospital… besides, I know they're doing what they think is best for me… they're teaching me what they believe is right… I just can't believe it with them… but I can't rat them out… I owe them so much… so the only thing I can do is be a good son to them… a good little spy… but, as soon as I finish high school—that's the end of it…._

The pain in his stomach eased as Daniel followed the logic of his decision.

_What I do with my life after high school is my business… it's only three more years—I can last that long… I'll pick my college and, when I graduate, I'll start my own company—or buy one… the way LPD is growing, I'll be able to pay for college and still have plenty of capital available…by then, I'll be an adult so Mom and Dad won't be able to stop me… but I'll still keep their secrets because I love them… and I'm so scared right now that Dad won't come home… I sure hope Dad is okay... please let him be okay…._

The next few weeks brought many changes to the Sutterfield family. Alan Sutterfield's double bypass operation was successful, but it was followed by twelve weeks of recuperation.

_Dad couldn't raise his arms, reach behind or above him, push himself upright in bed or his chair, lift anything heavier than five pounds, climb stairs… the list of prohibitions seemed endless… we made up a bed for him in the family room… the doctors also changed his diet—no fatty meats, rich sauces, no whole milk or cream—Mom said when the doctor told Dad "no caffeine," Dad demanded his old heart valves back because life was not worth living without coffee… the doctor relented, but ordered him to drink it black… we started eating more salads and vegetables… chicken instead of pork and beef… Mom can make anything taste good, but she hates using margarine for her cooking… just this morning, she asked if I wanted 'industrial grease' on my toast…._

Have his father around as a invalid meant that Daniel had to fetch and carry for him.

_I didn't mind, but helping him put a real crimp in my work with Mr. Bennett and Pete… I had to invent a special Scout meeting so I could with Mr. Bennett to our appointment with the patent attorney… that meeting went very well… we're filing on four of my designs… LDP will hold the patent rights and I'll get a cut of what they make us… some day, when I don't have to hide behind an adult, everything will have my real name on it… Sutterfield Industries, DS Computing, Amalgamated Sutterfield—okay, that one is really dorky… but DS Holdings isn't… I can use that name for all the companies I will buy…._

Daniel also made a change to his class schedule for the rest of the school year.

_ I dropped Shop and picked up an hour of Office Assistant—helping the secretaries in the school office… Mr. Brooks, the boy's assistant principal, asked if I was sure I wanted to do that… he said most of the students who took that 'course' were bone stupid… I don't think he would like my repeating that comment outside his office… I told him I wanted some experience with how offices run and the school's was reputed to be run very well… Mr. Brooks took that as a compliment…._

The real purpose of the schedule change was to let Daniel get his hands on the school's files.

_As soon as I turn sixteen—sooner if Dad signs the paper to let me work part-time when I'm fifteen—I'll need alternative identification… Dad and Mom have several caches with fake IDs hidden locally… if they get word they're about to be arrested, they can got to one of those caches, take the contents and disappear… once I learn how the school district handles its records—new student in-take, intra-system school transfers, transfers to other states, graduates and drop-outs, verification for college applications—I will be able to fake student records for me if I have to go with them… I do know my school stores some of its files on the school district's NCR computer… if I can convince the secretaries to let me use the school's data terminal, I should be able to learn a lot…._


	14. The Splintered Son: Part Three

Author's Notes:

In an effort to get to the exciting stuff, this chapter is a set of vignettes covering the next sixteen months in Daniel's life. If I don't mention it, assume he ate, slept, went to class, earned all As, went to Scouts, watched Pete's ball games—the usual events of a normal life.

_Geek_: probable first use in print in reference to a mathematician (as opposed to a sideshow freak) was in Robert A. Heinlein's short story "The Year of the Jackpot" published in _Galaxy Science Fiction's _March 1952 issue

_NCR Century 300:_ For photos and info, see: /html/ncr_century_

_JD_: juvenile delinquent

_Bob Taylor_ is a real person. To my knowledge, no teenager successfully scammed him.

_Mizzou_: nickname of the University of Missouri

_Boris and Natasha_: not Sally Kellerman and Dave Thomas, but the original cartoon characters voiced by June Foray and Paul Frees

_Jussipaita:_ /app/thumbnail?img= kuvat/anniina_neuleet_ &waitfor=true&width=170&height=250&id=155051&hash=ac7ac0c5c95044658ebe2e69172e08ca

Ferdinand Junior High School  
>Monday, January 15, 1973<br>Day -10,578

"Hey, Geekface—come here!"

Daniel, who was walking to his fifth period history class with Pete, ignored the command that rang through the hall. Other students, either not as brave nor as foolhardy, chose that moment to walk faster or in a different direction than the boy and his friend, leaving the two alone in the hall to face the speaker.

"That means you, Sutterfield!"

Pete hesitated then asked Daniel _sotto voce_ if they should stop.

_I didn't want to… but I knew Duckworth was the sort of jerk who would grab me by the shoulder, thus wrinkling my dress shirt… so I came to a stop and slowly turned around…._

Behind Daniel stood the class JD: Stanley Duckworth, six feet, two inches tall, two hundred and six pounds, a thin fringe of hair darkening his upper lip with a thicker one overhanging his eyes, his face pock-marked, and his teeth stained by colas and cigs. Duckworth's family had moved to Ferdinand from Kansas City the year before; people said their move was only two steps ahead of a felony arrest warrant from the city police. Duckworth was well aware of his reputation, and he made certain he dressed and acted in a way to enhance his infamy. His hair was always too long for the school's dress code. His jeans were tight enough to show the shape of the hardpack Marlboro box in his hip pocket—also against school rules, and his behavior toward the teachers was so disrespectful that he spent more time in the principal's office than the next four students on Principal Jennings' trouble-maker list combined.

Two minions, one rail thin, the other resembling a flesh-colored Hulk, neither capable of independent thought, flanked Duckworth. They occupied the second and third ranks on the trouble-maker list and functioned as yes-men to Duckworth's schemes and plans. All three towered above Daniel. Pete, true to the promise he had made back in third grade, took his place next to his friend.

"Don't go getting us thumped," he whispered to Daniel. "I'm wearing a new shirt from my grandma and I haven't written the thank-you for it yet."

Daniel merely stared up into Duckworth's face.

_Never let them see you're afraid… it only makes them bolder… best to look bored until I find out what he wants…._

Duckworth poked his finger above the silver clip of Daniel's tie, a red silk rep that had been a Christmas gift from his parents.

"Nice tie, dweeb," he told him. "You working in the office this semester?"

"Yes, I am," Daniel replied. "I believe you saw me there on Tuesday and Thursday last week when Mrs. Coughlin sent you to the office."

The snide reference to his mental slowness slid past the hoodlum.

"You can get at the grade reports, right?"

Pete jerked at the question. Daniel held himself still and kept his gaze centered on Duckworth's mustache.

"Yes, I can," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

Duckworth's laugh sent a foul puff of stale smoke and halitosis into Daniel's face.

"'Why do I ask?'" he repeated, straining his voice an octave higher. "Pray tell, kind sir—why do I ask?"

His minions laughed as Duckworth leaned closer to Daniel.

"I ask because I want to know, Geekface. Now, can you get at the records here and the ones on they keep on that computer in the main office?"

Daniel blinked at the question.

_Now I get it… he's going to demand that I improve his school transcript—make him look like a great student… as much as I am gratified that he recognizes my abilities—_

"Don't bat your eyes at me," Duckworth ordered. "You know what I'm driving at. Now, can you do it or do I have to pound you until you're nothing but a greasy spot on the tile?"

Daniel glanced at Pete.

_He'd gone pale, but he wasn't shaking yet… that didn't start until after I replied to Duckworth's demand…._

"No."

Duckworth leaned back on his heels, his face slack with astonishment.

"What?"

"I refuse," Daniel said. "I will not. What you desire will not happen. However you wish it said, I'll say it in that way. Your grades will not be improved by me."

The minions emitted two harmonious growls as they surged toward Daniel. Duckworth stuck out his hands to hold them back.

"Okay, dweeb," the hoodlum snarled, "guess I'll have to—"

Daniel interrupted him.

"Now, what I will do for you," he said as calmly as he could manage, "is change the few decent grades you have to Fs on the district's mainframe. I'll follow that feat by hacking into the city's computers and raising your family's property taxes by several hundred percent, then I'll create a couple dozen traffic tickets for every adult in your family—all dated so they appear long overdue, and I'll throw in an arrest warrant or two each to cap things off."

Daniel raised up on his toes so he could lean into Duckworth's face.

"Would you prefer your father to be charged with Domestic Disturbance, Assault and Battery, or Bank Robbery? Bank Robbery is a Federal crime, which means the FBI knocking on your door."

Duckworth's brow creased with puzzlement.

"What?" he repeated.

Daniel faked a loud, long laugh.

"I'm speaking as slowly as I can, Stanley," he said. "Do try to keep up. Now, if that's not enough fun for you, I can also log into the Children Services system and get you removed to a group home—someplace out in the sticks where they wake you before dawn to muck out horse stalls and milk dairy cows then they feed you swill for breakfast before locking you in a classroom until it's chore time again. What with the sleep deprivation, the nicotine withdrawal, and the armed guards, I'm sure you will have a wonderful time."

The thug crinkled his nose as he tried to wrap his mind around the enormity of the smaller boy's threat. Daniel used the thug's uncertainty to press his own advantage. He scowled as fiercely as he could then he glared straight into Duckworth's eyes.

"Yes," he said, "I know so much about computers that I can screw up your life from now until the day you die and, if you ever approach me again, I will do all this and more."

Duckworth gaped at the boy for a moment longer then he snapped his fingers at his minions.

"C'mon, guys. This was a waste of time. Should have known the dweeb couldn't handle a simple request."

With that said, Duckworth spun on his heel and headed for the far end of the hall, his two minions following close behind him. Pete hissed out a long sigh as Daniel felt his spine turn to jelly from delayed shock.

"I thought we were gonna die," Pete said.

Daniel managed a weak smile.

"Me, too. Thanks for standing by me."

Pete shrugged off the thanks.

"No problem," he replied, his voice quavering the first word. "Thanks for keeping us in one piece."

Over their head, a hall bell began its wind-up to ringing the tardy alarm. Daniel and Pete turned and ran down the hall, making it through the classroom door just as the bell finished its clamor.

_Pete asked me later if I really could ruin Duckworth's live like I threatened… I had to tell him no, but that I intended to learn how before the semester was over… turned out it only took me three weeks…._

Ferdinand Junior High School  
>Monday, April 23, 1973<br>Day -10,480

The news raced through the halls of the school: Steven Nemo, the eighth-grader who had lost his run for student body president by only two votes, the leader of the school's championship 3-D chess club, the originator of the catch phrase 'What's the Word, Ferd?', the boy voted "Most Popular," "Most Likely to Succeed," and "The Boy We Most Want to Kiss" in the school's yearbook, was dead.

Rumors of how Steven had died flew among the student body between classes and via hand-passed notes in class. By the fourth period, it was settled that Steven had died in a surfing accident on the North Shore of Oahu during Easter Break the week before.

"That's in Hawaii," one student told a group of his friend. "I heard he was visiting his grandparents at their pineapple ranch. They makes millions selling fruit to Dole; that's how Steven could afford all those cool threads." Nearby, a girl stood by her locker and sobbed, "At least he died doing something he loved." Her girlfriends, their eyes also wet with tears, could only nod their agreement with her wise words.

Halfway through the fourth period, a long buzzer signaled a message from the school office. Via the speakers mounted in each classroom, Mr. Jennings, the principal, confirmed the bad news.

"Ferdinand Junior High will be a sadder place," he told the students and faculty," without Steven's smile and his school spirit. Please keep his family in your thoughts and prayers during this trying time."

In the school office, Mr. Jennings turned his microphone off then turned from the Public Address System controls.

"If I ever get my hands," he growled, "on the bastard who created Steven Nemo and kept that hoax running all these months, I'll expel him—not just from here, but from every damn school in the district."

Mrs. Baker, the school secretary, _tsked_ at his vulgarities.

"Language, Mr. Jennings," she reminded him."Personally, I think it was those Catholic students over at St. Leo's Preparatory. Nemo always sounded Italian to me, and you never know about Papists."

At a small table in the corner, forgotten by both adults, the student office assistant, a bespectacled ninth-grader in a starched shirt and a muted blue paisley tie, hid a wide grin behind his Algebra III textbook.

_It was all Pete's idea… he came up with the stunt when I told him I now knew how to access the student database… the two data terminals in the school office are linked to the school district's NCR Century 300 computer via a dedicated telephone line… using either terminal, I can access any record I want… Mrs. Lundquist, the school's data entry clerk, keeps her account name and password on a three-by-five card in her top left desk drawer… I used it a couple of times—until I set up my own account with full administrator privileges… it wasn't that hard..._

Using his knowledge, it was a simple task for Daniel to create a transfer student and enroll him at the junior high school.

_I named Steven Nemo after Odysseus—you know, from when he blinded the Cyclops— and Pete chose his classes and activities… Steven was what we'd be if we could dump our faults—smart, daring, handsome, popular… I made sure the sections he 'took' were over-crowded and had teachers not known for good record-keeping… we signed him up for Spanish club and Key Club… made him back-up quarterback for our football team, the Ferdinand Bulls… when we decided Steven should run for class president, I took Mrs. Baker's key ring from her desk and I traced the school's keys onto cardstock… then I cut my own set of keys from those cardboard templates at Kinlock Hardware while the man who usually makes keys was at lunch… the night before electioneering began, Pete and I went to the school and plastered the hallways with posters and banners touting Nemo for President… we didn't leave a single space open for the other candidates…_

"Sutterfield, you know anything about who faked this Nemo character ?"

Daniel looked up from his textbook.

"Sir," he told the principal, "I don't know a single thing about that."

Mollified by the boy's response, the principal left the room. Since Mrs. Baker was still muttering about Papists, Daniel returned to his math book.

_It's all in how you answer the question… if Mr. Jennings only knew how much work it was to keep the deception going… Pete and I were aware that the entire administration knew Steven was a fake, but they couldn't figure out how he put his posters up or managed to keep his records in the district database… of course, that was me working from other data terminals like the one at Cedar Street Elementary… there's a dead drop in the teacher parking lot so I'm there a lot… I noticed that the janitor who works there in the evening leaves the main door unlocked while he cleans the offices… it's easy to sneak in when he's busy then log into the computer system while he's working somewhere else… I also discovered Telnet—it's an network protocol that allows a user to connect and control a remote computer via its TCP port 23—no direct cables or phone lines required—just a terminal connected to a computer that has a network connection to the network to which the computer you want to control is connected… turns out the computer Dad used at work was connected to Arpanet, the military's research network… and the school district's computer was connected to a mainframe at the University of Missouri that also was connected to Arpanet… once I figured all this out, I could update Steven's records simply by going to work with Dad on Saturdays… after he recovered from his heart attacks, Dad would go in on the weekend so he could catch up on projects that slipped because he was absent… he'd sign me in using his account so I could play Hunt the Wumpus or Lunar Lander—but I'd really be updating Steven's records and exploring whatever other computers I could get into… Mr. Jennings never figured any of this out… neither did Dad… while I was supposed to be playing games, I managed to get into the Social Security database, the Pentagon's personnel files, IBM's research facility in Yorktown NY, CERN's laboratory in Geneva, the Palo Alto Research Center—I had Bob Taylor, manager of the Computer Science Laboratory there, convinced I was a grad student in computer systems at Mizzou, but I couldn't talk him into sending me a Xerox Alto for beta-testing… oh, well…._

Amtrak Rail Station  
>Raton, New Mexico<br>Tuesday, July 17, 1973  
>Day -10,395<p>

_Not many parents would structure their entire vacation around a train arrival, but mine did… we left Ferdinand Saturday morning and drove west on I-70… We spent the night in a motel in Colby, Kansas… Sunday and Monday we did stuff in Denver—the history museum for me, the botanical gardens for Mom, the Coors brewery for Dad—I asked the tour guide about product profit margins and he couldn't answer… we also toured the U.S. Mint… Mom and Dad snickered all the way through dinner afterward at the fact that the government had allowed them inside the U.S. Mint…sometimes, it's hard to believe my parents are adults…._

Early Tuesday morning, the family left Denver and drove south to Raton, New Mexico so Daniel could greet the arrival of the Southwest Chief, the Amtrak train that ran from Chicago to Los Angeles. The train was carrying, among other passengers, Ensio Koskinen and his fellow Finnish Scouts, Raton being the closest train station to Philmont Ranch.

_It took several letters and two long-distance phone calls to arrange this… Dad spoke to Ensio's Scoutmaster the day before we left home to confirm our schedules… at 11:52 a.m., the train will arrive and I'll finally get to meet Ensio in person—assuming we don't hit a mule deer on the highway or have a blow out or something else go wrong…._

Despite Daniel's worrying, the trip south went smoothly…

_… except for my father's insistence that we stop in Colorado Springs so he could take a photo of Mom and me by the gate leading to NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defense Command at Cheyenne Mountain… instead of "Cheese!" to make us smile, Dad shouted "Spies!" then he and Mom started doing Boris and Natasha imitations… I am so glad no one else was around… maybe it's good for my parents to get this out of their systems so they can be serious for the rest of the year… but it sure is embarrassing…._

By 11:45 a.m., the Sutterfields were on the platform of Raton's train station. The depot was a one-story building made of brick and yellow stucco in the Spanish Mission Revival style with wide arches framing the platform. The only other people on the platform with the family were the baggage handlers and the drivers of the buses from Philmont. Daniel was pacing while his parents sat on a wooden bench, his mother fanning herself with a train schedule. Next to her lay Daniel's gift to his friend.

_It's a flint knife… Mitch Lamb, a friend of Mr. Clemens, my assistant Scoutmaster, makes them for his hobby… he takes a slab of obsidian and shapes it with stones and deer antlers until it is thin and sharp enough to shave with… then he attaches it to a bone or antler handle just like the Indians did before the Europeans arrived with their steel tools and knives… I watched him do a demonstration at summer camp where he made a knife from scratch then skinned a rabbit with it… I asked if he made special orders… when he said he did, I asked him to make a knife as authentic as possible because it was for my friend in Finland… Mr. Lamb used rainbow obsidian and a deer leg bone for its handle with real deer sinews binding the handle around the knife's tang—that's the part that isn't sharp and fits into the handle… he even made a deer hide belt sheath for it… if the knife were an authentic relic, it would be worth hundreds, but he only charged me thirty bucks—still a lot of money, but my friend is worth it… Mom didn't think a knife was the proper sort of gift… she said giving a friend a knife will cut the friendship… I'm not superstitious and Ensio is into sailing and camping so I figure he'll really like it… Mom filled a big tin with her ginger cookies—just in case…._

Eight minutes later, a train whistle announced the approach of the Southwest Chief. Daniel watched the train slow to a stop next to the depot. The doors of the passenger cars opened and dozens of boys in khaki shorts, tan shirts, and neckerchiefs rushed onto the platform.

Daniel stepped back to give them room.

_I knew Ensio would find me… and, just a minute later, I heard my name then he came running up… Ensio had his entire troop with him—everyone wanted to meet the American penpal… unfortunately, we only had about fifteen minutes to talk before he had to board his bus for Philmont, but it was worth it… we'd been writing back and forth for over four years and how many kids actually meet their pen pals in person, anyway? I met Mr. Juhani Koskinen, Ensio's father, and all the kids in his troop… I introduced my parents… Mom handed over her cookie tin and everyone except for Ensio lit out for the bus to eat them… I felt bad for a moment then Mom reached into her purse and pulled out a smaller tin just for Ensio… my Mom is great… Ensio told me the trains in Finland are nicer than ours… I told him our airlines are the best way to travel—not that I've ever been on a jet, but someone has to stick up for our country… I told him I envied him for getting to spend two weeks hiking at Philmont, which wasn't really true… Ensio told me he was jealous of me going to the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas—world-famous places, he called them… he had a gift for me, too… it was a hand-knit pullover sweater, pale gray from the bottom up to the chest, then there was a diamond pattern in dark red and the shoulders were solid red… even though it was over eighty degrees outside, I put it on… it was wonderfully soft… Ensio said his grandmother made it from a traditional pattern… and he liked my gift so much, he immediately hung it from his belt… he promised to send me pictures of him at Philmont and I promised him the same from my vacation… then it was over and he had to board his bus and leave…._

Daniel waved until he could no longer see Ensio then he walked to his parents, who were waiting for him in the shade of the depot's arches. Mrs. Sutterfield complimented him on the sweater, and Mr. Sutterfield clapped him on the shoulder as though he understood how his son was feeling.

_Back when I started writing Ensio, it was only so I could get letters to Alla… but, if Mr. Koskinen had told me there was room for one more, I'd have been on that bus in a heartbeat—even thought I hate primitive camping… that's how much meeting Ensio for real meant to me…._

To hide his damp eyes and suddenly stuffy nose, Daniel slowly pulled the sweater over his head.

"Can you open the truck, Dad?" he asked. "I should put this in my suitcase."

When his parents stood up, Daniel followed them to the car. Mr. Sutterfield opened the passenger door for his wife before joining Daniel by the rear of the car.

"That wasn't long enough—was it, son?" he asked.

Daniel shook his head, unwilling to risk hearing his voice shake while answering.

"Maybe, some day," Mr. Sutterfield told him, "you and Ensio won't live so far away from each other. Stranger things have happened in life."

Daniel nodded again as he put the sweater into his suitcase. When he had closed the truck, his father put an arm around Daniel's shoulder.

"I'm glad this worked out," he told his son. "It may be the high point of my trip—seeing you with your friend."

Daniel leaned into the hug and nodded again.

"Thanks for getting me here, Dad."

"You're welcome, son."

The two of them got into the car, Daniel in the back seat behind his mother, then Mr. Sutterfield started the engine.

"All aboard! Now departing on Interstate Twenty-five," he announced. "Next stop, Roswell, where the aliens crashed, then Carlsbad Caverns, Phoenix, the Grand Canyon, and the _Pieces de Resistance—_America'sHoover Dam."

He turned his head to leer at Mrs. Sutterfield.

"Natasha," he asked, "you haf bomb with you?"

Mrs. Sutterfield grinned back at him.

"I haf it right here, darlink," she replied. "Should be enuff to blow up _all_ ov Hoofer Dam."

Daniel ducked his head so no one outside the car could see him. It was going to be a long, long road trip. 

Ferdinand Men's Shop  
>Saturday, December 22, 1973<br>Day -10,237

The day was drear, overcast with spitting snow. Mr. Sutterfield drove Daniel into town for his first day of work with Mr. Erogov—not because of the weather, but due to his son's decision to wear his suit.

_I've been to the shop three times—once to buy this suit, once to pick it up when it was ready, and once to have the pants and sleeves let out because I grew… each time, Mr. Egerov was wearing dress slacks with a shirt and tie, so I think it's a smart move for my first day if I am in my suit…._

Mr. Sutterfield approved his son's decision with a nod and a grin.

"Always a good idea to use the employer's product," he told Daniel. "That's why we have a McKenna-made space capsule in our garage."

"Yeah, Dad," Daniel said with a chuckle, "right next to the McKenna jet Mom uses for errands."

"That's your Mom," he replied. "Fastest errand-runner in the west."

"_Meep-meep_," Daniel said in his best Roadrunner voice.

Father and son kept up the stream of nonsense until they arrived at the tailor's shop. Mr. Sutterfield offered to walk in with Daniel, but Daniel turned down his offer. Although it was fifteen minutes until the shop opened, the front door was unlocked. Daniel knocked, to be polite, then he let himself in. Mr. Erogov was behind the counter, counting the day's starting cash into the ornate brass cash register. He looked up when the door opened.

"My new helper," he greeted the boy. "I see you know the value of a good first impression."

Daniel stayed by the door.

I've been here before," he reminded the older man.

"Yes, but as a client and the son of a friend— never as my employee."

Mr. Eregov closed the register's drawer then he came out from behind the counter. He beckoned the boy closer then he walked a circle around him, humming as he moved.

"I'll front you two pairs of slacks off the rack," he told Daniel, "then take them out of your paycheck over the next three months. That way, you won't notice the deduction too much. Don't worry about wearing the jacket while working; it will only hinder your movements when I teach you to measure and fit."

"What about ties?" Daniel asked.

The tailor snorted a laugh.

"Haven't I sold you half a dozen ties already, young man?"

Daniel reddened.

_I've bought eight, but I don't think he was truly counting… I paid for them with money from LPD… I told my parents I was helping out with Pete at his uncle's business—not a real job requiring a work permit, but sometimes Mr. Bennett would slip me some cash for my efforts… I'm easing them into the idea that I not only work for a corporation, I own thirty-three percent of it… ._

"Dress slacks and shirt with tie will suffice, Daniel," Mr. Eregov told him. "Wear the jacket to the shop then hang it in the back room. I'm sure you will find plenty of hangers to chose from. Should you want or need more clothing, there's an employee discount of fifteen percent."

Daniel nodded.

"That is more than generous, Mr. Eregov."

"I think so. Now, your father said you are available Saturday mornings and after school on Mondays and Thursdays.

Daniel nodded again.

_Mom is taking over the radio watch… I told Dad I had chess club and tutoring the other three weekdays, although I'm really at LDP… and I had to drop out of Scouts to free up Saturdays… I'll miss doing stuff with the guys, but I won't miss the camping… no, not at all…._

He smiled at the thought.

"You're happy about working after school?"

"No, sir," Daniel said as he lost the smile. "Well, actually, sir—I am happy about working here. I expect to learn a lot."

Mr. Eregov raised both eyebrows as he peered at the boy.

"Tailoring is hard work, Daniel. It's rough on the knees and the back and the eyes and the hands—but, then, what work isn't?"

He turned toward the back of the shop then beckoned Daniel to follow him into the workroom. The same elegant organization that ruled the shop also ruled the workroom. Bolts of fabric lay in orderly stacks. Spools of thread were stored on pegboards for easy access, and shelves and bins held other items Daniel could not name. Incandescent lights both overhead and clamped to worktables lit the room. The scents of wool and dust and chalk tickled Daniel's nose as he leaned close to a stack of cut fabric on a work table.

_Dark gray pinstripe… and a rougher fabric that looks like canvas, but tightly woven… dark gray felt… a maroon silk… must be for a custom jacket…._

Mr. Eregov pointed out a wall peg with a wooden hanger; Daniel took it as a hint to remove his jacket.

"Now, young man," the tailor told him, "your duties: you will keep the shop tidy. When a client removes a jacket from its hanger to inspect it or unfolds a pocket square to admire its pattern, you will make sure the item is returned to its proper position, but not when the client can see you doing so. Never make a client think he is inept, even if he can't refold a square without a diagram. You will also learn the names of all the fabrics, notions, types of thread, padding, accessories, and their use and proper place, both on the body and in this shop. Ask questions when I am not busy in the shop. Keep your hands clean at all times. I don't think I have to tell you to respect the clients."

"No, sir."

"As soon as you know what is what, I will show you how to measure a client. I will also show you how to make a pattern and how to correctly proportion it to the measurements you have taken. You will practice on paper until I know your hands will not destroy good fabric. Do you know how to hand-sew?"

"I can replace a button," Daniel offered.

"That is not sewing. Can you use a sewing machine, a serger, or a press?"

Daniel shook his head as he wondered if his ignorance would end his employment. A slow smile spread across the tailor's face.

"Good," he announced, "you have no bad habits to unlearn. Once you know and understand the fabrics, and the styles, and the patterns, and the measuring, and the sewing, I will let you hem slacks. When you can hem slacks to my satisfaction, I will let you adjust waistbands. When you can adjust waistbands adequately, I will let you alter seams. When you can alter seams without client complaint, I will let you adjust shoulders and modify lapels. When you can do all of that to my standards, then I will let you attempt a suit—for yourself. That way, you can enjoy the workmanship or regret the mess your hands and your brains have produced."

Surprised by the number of things he was required to learn, and overwhelmed by the importance Mr. Eregov placed on them, Daniel could only say, "Wow. I hope I can do all that to your satisfaction, Mr. Eregov."

A slow smile spread across the tailor's face.

"I've no doubt but that you will do fine. Now, it is time to open for business." 

Banquet Room  
>Ferdinand Elks Lodge<br>Friday, February 9, 1974  
>Day -10,461<p>

It may have been the last place Daniel expected his parents to be in attendance: the hall at the Elks Lodge for the Ferdinand Business Council's Awards Banquet.

_But they're here, Mom in a bright red suit, Dad in a black suit and tie, me in the suit I made to show Mr. Eregov I had been well taught by him—charcoal solid wool, two-button, wide lapels and a slight flare to the slacks… just a hint of current fashion, but not so much that I look modish…._

The Sutterfields were at a round table with Pete and his parents, and his aunt.

_Bonnie Bennett, __née __Eigen… she was one of our first hires—office manager and "eyes" for Mr. Bennett… some day, computers will make it so the blind won't need people to read for them; they will be able to scan all their paperwork and have it read back to them… to Pete's and my embarrassment, Pete's uncle and Miss Eigen hit it off right away… they ate lunch together… went out for dinner together… then to movies and picnics… finally, Mr. Bennett proposed… at least he didn't ask her in the office… I'm all for romance, but coming around a corner at LPD and finding them kissing was sort of gross…._

Mrs. Bennett, like her husband Lucas, knew not to mention the boys' involvement with the business.

_Pete and I told her we wanted to surprise our parents with the money to pay for college when the time came to start applying… she said she thought that was wonderful and we were the best boys ever and no way would she let the cat out of the bag… I like her a lot, but she talks in clichés…._

Daniel dug into his chicken Kiev, baked potato, and mixed vegetables.

_The food's okay… and the waiter did bring me a teapot and a Darjeeling tea bag when I asked… but we're not here for the food… we're here to see Mr. Lucas Bennett of LPD, Incorporated receive the "Ferdinand Businessman of the Year" award…._

Both of Daniel's parents had questioned the necessity of their attendance when the invitation arrived in the mail.

" I like Sam and Janet," his father had said, "but I barely know Sam's brother. Why would he ask us to something like this?"

Mrs. Sutterfield shrugged in reply. When Mr. Sutterfield tossed the card on a stack of come-ons and fliers that he would later throw away, Daniel decided he had to speak up.

"I think we're invited," he told his parents, "because Pete and I had something to do with Mr. Bennett starting his business."

Both parents turned toward him.

"You did?" his mother asked.

Daniel told them how Mr. Bennett had ordered "an electronic device" to assist him with public telephones then had decided to start making them himself because of its poor quality.

"Pete and I told him it was a great idea and that he should go for it. He told us once that he never would have attempted it without our inspiration."

Mrs. Sutterfield pursed her lips as she peered at her son. Mr. Sutterfield raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe he said 'instigation'," Daniel said, hoping a joke would help convince them. "I forget. Either way, I think that's the reason we're invited."

_I'm not sure why they acted suspicious, but we're here so I don't suppose it matters… and Mr. Bennett is heading to the podium to receive his award… this is so cool—sure, it's not me or Pete getting the recognition, but that will come… we won't be minors forever…._

On the dais at the front of the hall, the president of the Ferdinand Business Council had offered his arm to guide Lucas Bennett. The honoree accepted the assistance. At the podium, the president introduced Mr. Bennett then he presented the award.

_It's a plaque… what's neat about it is that, under all the verbiage on its face, they repeated everything in Braille… Mr. Bennett's running his fingers over the cells…._

Those attending watched as Lucas Bennett cleared his throat in preparation to make his acceptance speech.

"I'm sure you'll be happy to know," he said as he held up the award with his fingers resting on the Braille characters, "that my name is spelled correctly."

Many people, including Daniel and Pete, chuckled at the quip.

_Mr. Bennett then thanked the Council for the honor bestowed on him…_

"As you know from my introduction," Mr. Bennett continued, "LPD produces consumer and custom electronics. We employ seventy-eight people at our facility north of town. It's light-years away from the kitchen table in my apartment where the idea for the company was conceived, and I'd be seriously selfish if I didn't give credit for my success where it is due. Somewhere out there is my wife Bonnie. Honey, could you stand up?"

Pete's aunt grinned as she got to her feet. Her smile grew as Mr. Bennett told how she had created order out of chaos as the company's office manager.

"Without her support," he told the crowd, "and her love, and also her ability to drive much better than I do, I would not be here this evening."

Pete's aunt laughed at the joke as she took her seat. Mr. Bennett then thanked the company's employees, the customers who entrusted their orders to LPD, and the investors and banks who had, as he put it, "took a look at a blind man and saw him as successful and not as disabled."

"But," he continued, "there are two people who deserve my thanks more than even my banker, although maybe not quite as much as my wife. Back in August of 1971, I had ordered an electronic dialer to help me with my use of telephones."

Pete caught Daniel's attention so he could grin at him.

_Yeah, nice use of euphemism there…._

"When it arrived, it turned out to be an overpriced piece of junk—not at all what I thought I had paid for. Out of frustration, I expressed my intent to build a better product."

He paused for a moment, then he said, "Pete, Daniel—you two had better be here because I want to embarrass you in front of all these people."

The boys rose to their feet.

"My nephew, Pete Bennett, and his friend, Daniel Sutterfield, were visiting me on that day, and they heard me vent my frustration at that piece of junk. To their everlasting credit, both of them immediately applauded the idea. They didn't see me as some blind guy cheated by a sleazy mail order company. They saw me as someone who could turn an idea into a successful business, and their enthusiasm gave me the push I needed to turn my intent into reality. Pete, Daniel—from the bottom of my heart, thank you."

Daniel felt his cheeks warm. Across the table, Pete's were turning red as the crowd clapped their approval. Both sets of parents joined the applause with huge grins on their faces.

When the applause quieted, Mr. Bennett then said, "Guys, if you're still standing, you can sit down now."

To the accompaniment of laughter, the two boys followed the instruction. Mr. Bennett then finished his speech with a promise to keep his company growing and hiring thanks to the strong business climate provided by the Ferdinand Business Council. Daniel sat back and imagined himself giving such a speech.

_Some day, that will be me receiving awards... and I'll speak just like Mr. Bennett did—short, sincere, and humble… boy, won't that be great…?_


	15. The Splintered Son: Part Four

Author's Notes:

Yes, I know there's no way Daniel could be a great tailor so quickly—but, let's face it. He is/will be Finch….

_Legal Services Corporation Act:_ This was passed in July, 1974. I picked it because it sounds really boring.

_Star of Asia_: **: famous-gemstones/star-of-asia-sapphire**

_Sergey Alexeyevich Lebedev_ is a Real Person. _The __Institute of Precision Mechanics and Computer Engineering _is real, as is the _Moscow Institute_, but _Victor Steklov_ is fictitious and what he does in this chapter was written to suit the needs of the story, not reality.

KPSS: Initials of the Russian name for the Communist Party of the Soviet Union

All foreign phrases are courtesy of on-line translators; please correct me if I'm wrong.

Franklin Square  
>Washington, D.C.<br>Friday, July 19, 1974  
>Day -10,032<p>

The day was the fifth of the Sutterfields' family vacation in Washington, D.C. Monday had been spent on a walk that began at their hotel, the Statler Hilton on 16th Street NW. Although his father termed the day-long meander "a reconnoiter of enemy territory," Daniel enjoyed it because it gave him a change to gape like a tourist at all the famous sights.

_The White House… the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial… the Jefferson Memorial… the Smithsonian… the Freer Art Gallery… the Capitol Building… Ford's Theater… the Russian Embassy—maybe not a famous sight, but it was only one block north of our hotel… oddly, it was the only stop on our walk where my parents didn't do their Boris and Natasha routine—yes, they were doing that again this year…._

Tuesday was spent touring the White House and the Capitol.

_My father actually asked the tour guide if anyone had signed up for the tour as Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale… she said "No" then told Dad she was really impressed that he knew their last names… turned out she was a Rocky and Bullwinkle fan and could do most of their skits from memory… the tour was treated to lectures on the history of the White House and the presidents and trivia from Frostbite Falls from Mom, Dad, and the tour guide... the other tourists had a great time… I just smiled and pretended I didn't know them… at the Capitol, Mom left us for the Botanical Gardens while Dad and I used a pair of House gallery passes to watch "our Representatives in Inaction," as Dad put it… I wanted to see some of the impeachment hearings—remember, this was during Watergate when the House Judiciary Committee was trying to force President Nixon to turn over his secret tapes—but that had stalled while the Supreme Court decided whether to uphold the subpoena for them or not… if we'd been there a week later, I might have seen the articles of impeachment voted on… instead, Dad and I spent some time watching the House of Representatives discuss the __Legal Services Corporation Act… and yawning…._Wednesday and Thursday was spent at the various museums that comprise the Smithsonian.

_I could have spent a whole week there… we went to the Arts and Industries Building because the rocket and aviation collections were on display there while the Air and Space Museum was being built… then we went to the National Museum of Natural History… I gaped at the dinosaurs like a little kid… and the gems—everyone stares at the Hope Diamond, but the Star of Asia sapphire is the most beautiful stone I've ever seen… flawlessly blue with this six-rayed star perfectly centered… I plan to be rich, but I doubt I'll ever be rich enough to buy that gem from the Smithsonian… same goes for some of the statuary at the Hirshhorn Museum… I wonder what it feels like to see a statue of one's self? If I get rich and famous enough, I might find out…._

On Friday, Mr. Sutterfield left before breakfast to met with some specialty photography suppliers. His absence left his wife to set the day's itinerary.

_After breakfast, we walked to Franklin Square, a small park about four blocks from the hotel… I was wearing a light blue button-down shirt—collar open, and dark blue linen slacks… since I figured we were going to walk a lot, I chose some ankle boots that Mr. Eregov had recommended to me—he said they would be comfortable for walking and look better than sneakers… he was right … Mom was in tan Capri slacks and a magenta blouse with a white tennis visor to keep the sun from her face… she seemed upset about something—perhaps Dad going to his meetings without her—and she didn't say a word to me until we got to the park… it seemed an odd destination… the only thing of note in it was a memorial to Commodore John Barry, the first flag officer of the American Navy… it was a big bronze likeness on a pink marble base with a carved figure of Victory supporting it… assuming the statue was why we'd walked there, I stopped to look at it… Mom took a seat on a bench facing the street then she waved me over to her.…_

Daniel sat down on the bench beside his mother, who then glanced around to see if anyone was close by. Since the only people in sight were on the sidewalk and intent on their own destinations, she turned her attention to her son.

"Give me your watch and your wallet."

Daniel removed the Timex from his wrist and his wallet from his hip pocket then he handed them to her without question.

_It was an odd request, but it wasn't the weirdest thing Mom had asked me to do… I figured we were going to play some spy game … sometime to past the time until Dad finished his meetings … I was very wrong about that assumption…._

Mrs. Sutterfield put Daniel's watch and wallet in her purse.

"In a few minutes," she told him, "a car will pull up to the curb. I want you to get into its back seat and go with the driver. Follow whatever instructions you are given to the best of your ability. When you are returned to this park, please walk back to the hotel and come up to our room."

She handed him a key with a Statler Hilton room tag on it. Daniel held it in his hand as he stared at his mother.

"Can I ask why?" he asked.

"No," she replied, her tight smile warning that he might not like the answer.

"Okay, then—can you tell me anything else?"

The strain in her expression vanished, replaced by the fond smile she used when she was proud of her son.

"You won't be asked to do anything illegal," she told him, "but your activities could be misconstrued if anyone ever learns of them."

"Does Dad know about this?"

Mrs. Sutterfield nodded.

"If I screw up, will it hurt your and Dad's work?"

She shook her head then said, "But you will disappoint your father, Mr. Lukin and me."

Daniel raised an eyebrow.

"In that order?"

The tight smile returned to his mother's face.

"This is such a wonderful opportunity that I will not spoil it for you."

Daniel leaned back on the bench. He turned the room key over in his hands as he wondered what was about to happen to him.

"What if I refuse to go?" he asked.

Mrs. Sutterfield twisted on the bench so she could look her son in his eyes.

"Your refusal will upset some very important and influential people—the sort one must not anger without reason. Is my word not good enough for you?"

He blinked at her vehemence.

"It's plenty good, Mom. I just wish we could do something—anything—without getting all mysterious about it."

His mother snorted then grinned at his complaint.

"It is an occupational hazard."

She then reached out and straightened Daniel's shirt collar then she smoothed his hair.

"It is also hard to admit that you're growing up," she told him. "In my heart, you'll always be the small boy we brought home with us—so scared and so brave."

Daniel ducked his head from her hair-smoothing.

"Aw, Mom."

"I know," she said with a chuckle. "My words embarrass you, but they are true. Whatever you do and whatever you decide, I will always be proud of you, my son."

Daniel smiled as his face warmed.

_It's like when I first came to live with Mom and Dad… every time she called me her son, it made me feel wanted… wanted and loved… it still does…._

"I love you, Mom."

Mrs. Sutterfield reached into her purse for a tissue.

"I love you too, Daniel, and here is the car. Go quickly—do not make them wait."

A black Mercedes sedan slowed to a stop at the curb before them. Daniel rose to his feet, following his mother's directions. When he reached the door, she called out to him.

"_Viel Erfolg, mein Sohn_."

Daniel waved at her as he entered the sedan. The moment he was seated, the Mercedes accelerated away from the park, taking Daniel with it and leaving Mrs. Sutterfield alone on the park bench.

The interior of the Mercedes was a soft leather whose color reminded Daniel of melted caramel. The windows were heavily tinted, making it difficult to see the passing scenery except through the windshield. The only other occupant was the driver, a man in his late forties with black hair shot with gray. He was burly, but not fat, and his summer-weight black wool suit fit him as though Daniel had measured it himself.

_Except at the right armpit… it's lumpy there…._

Daniel leaned forward to get the driver's attention.

"Hello?"

The man did not respond. Daniel tried greeting him in German, French, then Russian. When the driver failed to reply, the boy leaned back against the seat and sighed.

_I could taunt him… see if I can make him talk… somehow, I don't think that is a good idea… I'm pretty sure that odd lump under his suit jacket is not body fat… if he's left-handed, it may mean he's armed…._

Daniel waited until the man turned the steering wheel for a turn.

_Sure enough, he's wearing a watch on his right wrist… I'm not only being driven to an unknown destination, I'm being taken by an armed man…._

He swallowed hard to dislodge a lump in his throat.

_I'm not petrified of guns like I used to be… the shooting range at Scout camp and some time with Mr. Lukin helping him clean and repair the handguns he owns helped me with that… but I don't like being around them… there's something unsettling about how a lump of metal can end a life so suddenly… of course, I'm not afraid of electricity or hammers or cars and all those things, used wrongly, are just as deadly… but there will always be something about a firearm that just isn't right…._

Daniel watched as the car drove through the city.

_We're making a lot of turns… no rhyme or reason to them that I can see… they're not due to one-way streets, either… he must be making sure we're not being followed… but Mom called this a wonderful opportunity… so I guess it's too soon to panic…._

Eventually, the turning ceased and the driver settled on a easterly direction as determined by the sun shining on the windshield. Twenty minutes more and the Mercedes was driving past farms and bedroom communities. With nothing interesting to see, no conversation to occupy him, and a deep desire to keep from worrying about his immediate future, Daniel focused his mind on something completely different.

_I really wish we'd taken this vacation last year and made our western trip this year… sure, I'd have missed meeting Ensio in person, but Alla got that internship she wanted and she is at the Soviet Consulate in San Francisco this summer… I know I could have talked Dad and Mom into stretching our trip that far—if only we had gone west this year instead of last year… as it is, I can't see her because I'm too far away… I can't call her because she's an intern and not allowed personal calls… I can't even write her… the method used to get my letters to her won't work while she's here… so I'm in Washington and she's in California and never the twain shall met… crap…._

Daniel allowed himself a few minutes to wallow in pity then he watched the scenery again.

_There's a town coming up… Annapolis… the Naval Academy is here somewhere, but we're not slowing down or leaving the highway…._

After driving through Annapolis, the Mercedes crossed a long, high suspension bridge. Daniel watched the water far below him.

_That's Chesapeake Bay—maybe it's time to panic… I could jump out the next time we turn—if the driver slows down enough… if I don't mind being shot in the back while I run away…._

Daniel's stomach lurched at the thought. He swallowed hard against the nausea.

_I'm not going to jump… and I'm not going to be shot… Mom and Dad would not send me on this errand—chore—adventure—whatever the heck it is—if they thought I'd be in danger… Mom even wished me luck—no, Mom didn't…._

The boy stiffened in his seat as he remembered.

_Mom wished me 'Good Success…' German differentiates between that and good luck… the first is for situations like tests and team try-outs… the second is for other stuff… but what kind of test requires a long ride through the countryside?_

While Daniel was wondering, the Mercedes left the highway at a small town named Queenstown. The driver turned onto a county road that ran north through farmland until it reached its end.

_There's a house here… a three-story, red brick Georgian-style house—authentic, not a modern copy… there's a circular drive leading to the front porch with separate parking at its side… beautiful lawn, well-trimmed trees and hedges… whoever owns this place is wealthy…._

The driver pulled into the parking area and stopped next to another black Mercedes with a D.C. diplomatic plate. He exited the car and walked around to open Daniel's door.

"You are to come with me," he said in English with a Russian accent.

"Yes, sir," Daniel responded.

The driver led him through a green wrought iron gate to a courtyard that, judging from the tools and storage bins places against its walls, was used by whomever maintained the house. A wide wooden door at the far side of the courtyard opened as the driver approached it. A man in a charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie stood on the threshold. He appeared to be in his early fifties, and he combed his blond hair from a low part on the left side of his head. The scowl on his face showed their presence in the courtyard annoyed him.

"Is this Sutterfield?" he asked the driver.

"Da."

The driver turned to face Daniel then he indicated the door and the man with a tip of his head. At a lost for what to do next, the boy thanked the driver. To his surprise, the man grinned at him.

"I like quiet passengers," he replied. "You good like that."

With that said, the driver left the courtyard. Now alone except for the man at the door, Daniel gathered his courage and entered the house.

The room the boy entered was a mudroom, its wall lined with hooks for wet gear, the shelf over it holding hats and boot brushes. The man hurried Daniel from it into a large working kitchen. No one was at work, but three large trays of bread rolls covered with white cloths were on the counter.

Again, the man hurried Daniel from the kitchen into the adjoining dining room. He gave the boy little time to marvel at its ornate furniture or its carved woodwork as he led him through doors at the far end of the room. Daniel then found himself in a wide hallway with polished teak floors and impressive oil landscapes on its walls. Double oak doors to the boy's right marked the house's entrance, but it was a narrow open door to his left that caught Daniel's attention.

"Sir," Daniel said, a bit louder than he intended, "is that a rest room?"

The blond man spun on his heel to face the boy.

"It is," he said in Russian.

Daniel asked if he could use in, using Russian for his question. The man checked his wristwatch then said, "We must start in six minutes. When you are finished, enter the first door on your right."

Daniel took only three minutes. The first door on his right led to a library with walnut floor-to-ceiling shelves broken only by the hall door, two casement windows, and a narrow door in a side wall. In the center of the room stood a large mahogany desk with claw and ball legs that sank into the nap of the oriental rug under it. Tapestry-upholstered arm chairs flanked book tables centered before the two windows.

The only unusual feature in the room was a brown metal card table that someone had set in front of the mahogany desk. A matching folding chair was placed so that its occupant faced the desk. On the table's surface were a stack of scrap paper, two pencils with a small green plastic sharpener, and three ballpoint pens with caps Beneath the table was a metal wastebasket.

The man took a seat behind the desk then he pointed at the card table.

"You will sit there," he said in Russian. "I will administer each section of the examination and I will keep time for each section. If you do not know a word or do not understand the directions, I am allowed to explain, but only in Russian. Are you ready to begin?"

The urge to said, "Heck, no!" seized the boy, but he shook it off then before taking his seat at the card table.

"I am ready," he said, also in Russian.

"Good."

The man opened a drawer and removed from it a stack of thin bound booklets topped by several sheets of loose paper. He set all but one of the booklets to one side, leaving the loose sheets centered before him. The remaining booklet he placed by the sheets, open so he could read its contents.

"We will begin," he told Daniel, "with an oral examination of your knowledge of mathematics. You may not use paper or pencil for this section."

Thirty minutes later, Daniel was hiding a grin while his examiner made notes on sheet of paper.

_I think I blew his socks off… all the marks he made on that paper were the same kind—that means I got every question right—there's no way I got them all wrong…._

The man then handed Daniel one of the booklets. Inside were more mathematical problems, all in Russian.

_Word problems, derivations, equations to be solved … he gave me forty-five minutes and I used only thirty of them—and those mostly to check my work… ._

The man took the completed booklet from Daniel without looking at the answers written inside it.

_Next up was an oral science exam… the first part was history so I made sure all my answers gave the correct Russian names—this definitely wasn't the time to insist Americans were the better scientists and inventors… the rest tested my knowledge of logic, the scientific method, physics, chemistry, geology, biology, electronics… he even asked me asked about meteorology… and all my marks were the same…._

When that oral exam was finished, the man handed Daniel another exam booklet.

_More science—and still in Russian…._

After Daniel had completed that section, the man handed him a blank booklet and told him he had an hour to craft an essay in Russian on the importance of the work done by Sergey Alexeyevich Lebedev then to make a fair copy of his work.

_I am very glad I knew who he was… I'll bet there weren't more than a dozen American kids my age y who knew Lebedev had designed the first Soviet computers: the BESM-1, the M-20, the BESM-2—that's the one that computed the trajectories for Luna 2, the first spacecraft to reach the Moon, and Luna 3, the first to send back photos of the dark side of the Moon… Lebedev is considered the father of the Soviet computer industry… the essay almost wrote itself… I checked my grammar and spelling carefully then I copied it in my best handwriting and handed it in with nine minutes to spare…._

The blond man accepted the completed essay from Daniel. He then put the booklets and all but one of the loose sheets back into the drawer.

"Now," he said, "tell me about yourself."

The question was so open-ended that Daniel hesitated.

_I don't know if he knows about the Committee and my parents… if this is a test of my ability to keep a secret, then answering with too much information will blow it for me… on the other hand, maybe I'm supposed to tell him about 'my service to the glorious Soviet Union'—yeah, like I'm proud of that… I guess the smartest thing to do is ask politely who this guy is… maybe his title or name will give me the data I need to decide…._

Daniel drew in a deep breath.

"Well, I'm Daniel Sutterfield," he replied. "Is it permitted to ask your name?"

The man only stared coldly at him so the boy offered an apology for his impertinence.

_Okay—so I go with the next safest course and tell him nothing about my parents' work… if he knows about it, he can always ask me to talk about it…._

Daniel gave the professor his life story, emphasizing the training his mother had given him in Soviet history, dialectics, languages, communist doctrine, and also the practical skills taught him by his father. He spoke of the classes he was taking at Ferdinand High School, his high grades, and his city chess championships. The only question Steklov asked was whether Daniel had any experience with computers. The boy told him of the time he had spent on his father's terminal at McKenna Aerospace.

_I told him about playing computer games on my father's terminal at McKenna… and how I printed out their source code so I could see how they worked—and two test adventures I wrote using what I had learned… I did not mention giving myself admin privileges on the school system's computer nor did I say anything about LPD… and I certainly didn't tell him how I hacked into the Pentagon's payroll program and made it print daisies on all the paychecks… you could call it an anti-war protest, but I really did it just for fun…._

After Daniel finished answering the computer question, Professor Steklov made some notes then he put his paper into the desk drawer with the completed booklets..

"That completes this examination. There will be someone in the hall to take you to your next destination."

Before Daniel could speak, the professor rose to his feet and left the room through the side door. The boy sighed, both from relief that the testing was over and frustration that no one thought it necessary to explain anything to him.

_Plus, I'm hungry… if whoever is waiting in the hall for me happens to lead me through the kitchen, I'm stealing a roll—baked or not…._

Before he left the library, Daniel tried the desk drawers.

_Locked… I should have guessed… nothing on the desk tells me who owns this place… maybe I can find a bookplate in one of the shelved books... this one looks like a first edition of "Profiles in Courage"… might as well look there…._

There was no bookplate, but there was a hand-written dedication on its flyleaf.

_To Anatoly Dobrynin_ _… with the very highest regards…._

The signature was a squiggle, but it was the name that transfixed Daniel.

_He's the Soviet ambassador… this book proves I'm standing in the library of the Soviet ambassador… I rode in his car… I walked through his kitchen… I peed in his toilet… ._

The sound of the hall door opening behind him made Daniel shove the book back into its space. He spun around to see a young woman enter the library. She was wearing a Bobbie Brooks skirted suit, the jacket light plum, the skirt a natural linen with horizontal stripes of plum, navy and parchment. Her light brown hair was styled in layers that brushed her shoulders with long bangs almost obscuring her brown eyes. The business suit made Daniel think she was much older than he was.

_At least twenty-five… that is, until she put her hands on her hips and spoke to me in English with a Russian accent…._

"Why do you keep me waiting in the hall after I flew across your country for the sole purpose of seeing you in person?"

Daniel felt his jaw drop open.

"Alla?"

She grinned at him, her smile dropping her age back to the eighteen he knew it was.

"Yes, it's me. Isn't it wonderful?"

"It sure is. What are you doing here?"

Alla tipped her head as though exasperated with him.

"I am seeing you. Of course, the official explanation is that the Consul General and his and his wife are in Washington on very important business, and they, being a very important couple, never travel without their aides, assistants, and me."

Daniel glanced at the open door.

"Are they here now?"

Alla shook her head, sending her feathered hair flying in a way Daniel found most enjoyable.

"No, but they are arriving for supper by six o'clock. I'm supposed to be overseeing the preparations for their dinner tonight, but the staff has that under control so I plan to spend some time with you before you have to leave."

She smiled as she peered closely at him.

"Do you want a tour of the grounds? I saw a chess clock in the solarium—maybe a game?"

Daniel nodded.

"A game," he replied, "and something to eat, if it's possible."

Alla's eyes went wide.

"They didn't feed you? We will rush to the kitchen and fix that."

Ten minutes later, Alla and Daniel were seated in a high-ceilinged room with wide arched windows on three sides. The windows framed a brick courtyard with a wrought iron fence and a wide expanse of lawn that stretched to the waters of Chesapeake Bay. They were seated at a small table in wicker chairs. Before them had been laid silverware, napkins, serving plates with sliced roast beef, cheeses, sliced bread, condiments, and a bowl of pickled beet salad with a serving spoon. A glass of whole milk accompanied the food.

Daniel smiled his thanks to the kitchen workers, who smiled in reply before returning to their duties. Alla ignored them as she took up a serving fork. The boy happily accepted the makings of a thick sandwich and a scoop of beets. Since Alla had eaten while Daniel was in the library, she carried the conversation while he ate.

_She talked mostly about herself, which was fine with me… I hadn't heard her voice since before the FBI stopped our radio jawing… she was so much prettier in person… just listening to her made me all warm and happy…._

"— so Comrade Kirilin called my father and told him I was going to America as a consular assistant. It is a great honor to be allowed to work in America."

Daniel swallowed the last of his milk.

"I'm sure it is."

"And," Alla continued, "then the Consul picked me to accompany him and his wife on their trip to your capitol city. This is a great honor, also. However—"

She paused to lean over the table and smile at Daniel.

"Seeing you today is the best of all."

Daniel ducked his head as his cheeks warmed.

"Well," he said, "considering I had no idea I would be here today, I'm glad it happened. You don't know why I'm here, do you?"

Alla glanced around the room as thought making sure they were alone then she moved her chair around the table until she was elbow to elbow with Daniel.

"The man you were with in the library," she whispered, "is Victor Steklov, a professor with the Institute of Precision Mechanics and Computer Engineering. It is part of Phystech, where I will be beginning in the fall.

Daniel jerked upright in his chair.

_Wow… I never suspected that…_

"And," she whispered, "that examination he gave you is the entrance exam given all applicants, the same one I took two years ago. Did you find it difficult?"

"No," he whispered back. "In fact, I think I aced it."

"Aced it?"

"Got all the questions correct. It's from World War One. A pilot who shot down all his opponents was called an ace."

Alla grinned at him.

"And you're an ace for shooting down all your questions."

"Yes, I guess I am, but do you know why I was given that exam?"

She stared at him as though amazed at his denseness.

"Because some very important people in the Kremlin pulled strings—is that the correct way to say it?"

Daniel nodded and Alla resumed whispering.

"They pulled strings to have Professor Steklov flown here to administer the exams and the interview. The KPSS knows you are a child prodigy and genius so of course they want you to attend the Institute."

Daniel felt his jaw sag at the news.

_Child prodigy? Genius? The Communist Party-they know about me in the Kremlin? The entrance exam for the best university in the USSR? That's—that's…._

Alla leaned closer, so close that Daniel, if he wanted, could look down the front of her jacket.

_And I did want… pale white skin swelling up from a beige lace bra… wow…._

"You know, education at Phystech is free," she told him, the whisper turning from hushed to husky. "Classes, books, housing, food—it's not like American colleges. Students also get a monthly stipend for spending. It will be so wonderful to be there with you. I will show you Moscow—it's such a beautiful city. We will explore it together, and I will introduce you to my family and the important people they know. We will play chess and—"

Somehow, while she was talking, her lips ended up on his.

_Thanks to a couple of dates with Shelley Morrison, I knew what to do…._

He leaned into the kiss and, when Alla opened her lips, he placed his hand on the nape of her neck and held her closer—just as a knocking sound came from the solarium door. Alla jerked away, her chair rocking sideways at the sudden motion. As she jerked, Daniel's hand slid from her neck to her breast. He quickly pulled it back, grabbing a napkin from the table to cover his actions.

Alla turned toward the door behind her.

_It was the driver, the one who likes quiet passengers…. _

"What is it, Cherlin?" Alla snapped in Russian at the man.

"It is time for returning," the driver replied. "We leave in ten minutes. Professor Steklov suggested a trip to the toilet first."

Daniel ducked his head, more embarrassed by that reference than by being caught kissing Alla.

"Tell the professor I'll handle this, Cherlin."

Alla dismissed the driver by turning back to face Daniel.

"You have my lipstick on your upper lip," she whispered.

As soon as the driver left the doorway, Daniel rubbed the napkin against his mouth.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better would be no interruptions and more time," she told him. "Best will be you with me in Moscow, both of us together. You like?"

She put her hand on his then took his thumb in her fingers and stroked it, giving Daniel a strong reason to agree.

"I'd like."

"Then it's a date," she told him. "Now, you'd better follow instructions then I'll walk you to the car."

Daniel followed instructions. As he walked from the restroom to the car with Alla, he saw no one. Even the kitchen was vacant although a half-dozen Cornish hens on a butcher block and a heap of carrots partially chopped proved the kitchen had been cleared of workers before he entered it.

Outside, Alla glared at the driver until he turned to face the house, giving her and Daniel a small measure of privacy. She then accompanied Daniel to the rear passenger door.

"Remember," she whispered. "We have a date—two years from now, Moscow. Fall is beautiful and we can enjoy it together."

"Only if I'm accepted as a student," Daniel reminded her.

"You will be. I am certain."

She tipped her head and leaned close.

_I knew what she wanted… I had to get tippy-toe—Alla was wearing heels… then driver coughed and we had to stop…._

Daniel rolled his window down after he entered the Mercedes. Alla blew him a kiss through the opening.

"Two years," she told him. "May the months fly past until we're in Moscow together."

"Keep writing and it won't seem so long."

"I will, my ace."

The driver put the car into gear and drove to the road. Daniel twisted so he could see Alla through the rear window. She waved at him until the Mercedes turned onto the road then she returned to the house. The boy settled back into the seat with a glance at the driver.

_His attention was on his driving… he said nothing during the trip back to D.C., nor did he say anything when I left the car at Franklin Square… he left me to my thoughts, which was a good thing because so much had happened, I wasn't sure what to think… I was honored that I'm worth bringing a Phystech professor from the USSR just to give me a test… scared that the Kremlin knows so much about me… proud that I did so well on that exam… really impressed by the ambassador's _dacha_ –I want a place like it to spend my summers… annoyed I didn't get a full tour… and Alla… seeing Alla… hell, kissing Alla… that was—that was… that was the biggest crock of shit anyone has ever handed me…._

Daniel's hands tightened to fists.

_They label me a genius… do they really think I'm stupid enough fall for a honeypot? Did they really think I wouldn't see how Alla was throwing herself at me? Do they believe I'd sell my future for a kiss today and the promise of sex two years from now? Damn them—damn all of them… and damn Alla—I thought she was my friend, but she's nothing but a trap…._

He closed his eyes to block out the sight of the Ambassador's Mercedes then he spent the rest of the long drive wishing things were different.

_But they aren't different… Alla is a fake… she's a plant… the Committee arranged for her to act like my friend so they could get me to do what they want—go to Moscow and learn to be a Communist scientist for them…but they underestimated me—most people do… they let me know what's in store for me… that means I can take action to keep it from happening… maybe my parents will help me… if not, then I'll find a way to do it myself… because no way in Hell will I attend Phystech for them … I don't care how good Alla kisses… okay, I do care—I care a lot… but I'm never telling anyone how much her betrayal hurts…._

Back at the hotel, Daniel found both his parents waiting for him in their room.

_According to the alarm clock, it was almost four… no wonder they both looked anxious…._

Mrs. Sutterfield greeted her son with a shaky smile then she asked how his day had been. Daniel gave his parents a mostly accurate summary of the day's events, including the surprise meeting with his pen pal, but omitting the kissing and his certainty about his location.

_I don't think I was supposed to figure that out… and I don't want my parents thinking about me and Alla—or any girl… because—well, because they're my parents…._

When he finished his tale, Daniel asked if they had known about the exam.

"We were told to expect it sometime this summer," his father replied, "and Mr. Lukin warned us it might be scheduled during our vacation. Doing it now saved them the trouble of getting that professor to Ferdinand—a good thing, since I'm not sure how I would have explained his presence if one of our neighbors asked."

"And I'm pleased you did so well," his mother added. "Now, we must wait to see if you are accepted to the Institute."

"No worries about that," Mr. Sutterfield told her. "Paul as much as said it was a done deal. It's perfect for you, son. You'll finish high school, graduate, then head to one of the best schools in the world—and it's free. We can't ask for more, can we?"

"No, Dad," Daniel replied. "We can't."

"And," his father continued, "you got to meet Alla. Did you manage to fit a chess game into your busy day?"

"Yeah, Dad, we did."

_In a manner of speaking… since she was definitely toying with me… but now I know it's a game… and I know their strategy… and I know how to counter it…._

His father grinned at him.

"Who won?"

Daniel faked a smile.

"I did, Dad. It wasn't even close."


	16. Leg Trap

Author's Notes (feel free to skip)

I'm estimating two chapters (this one and the next) with an epilogue to finish this story.

_nouveau riche: _Describes one who recently became wealthy and is now living a vulgar and conspicuously ostentatious lifestyle (French, meaning "new rich.")

The Social Security database really was this easy to penetrate in the mid-seventies (although I deny any personal knowledge of this fact.) The format used here for a SSN database record is fictitious. Since POI uses Xs to mask digits on its depiction of the Machine's feeds, I'm doing the same here.

_Compiler:_ a program that converts source code (what humans write using programming languages) into machine code (what computers execute) Programs are compiled before it first is run and whenever they are updated or modified (also known as 'recompiling.')

_Hack_: in this case, a piece of code that does exactly what it should

_Ken Thompson_ is a Real Person (and he does have a Turing Award)

_Moby: _ from "Moby Dick," something really impressive

The annual cost of tuition, room, and board for U.S. four-year institutions in 1976-1977 averaged $2,577. ( .gov/programs/digest/d07/tables/dt07_ )

_Xerox Notetaker and Osbourne I: _early portable computers. The Notetaker was a prototype; only ten were produced. Osbourne Computer Corporation sold 11,000 units in its first year of production (1981) with 10,000 sold per month at its peak. The computer weighed 23 pounds, had a 5" screen, two 5-1/4" floppy drives, a 69-key keyboard that doubled as the case lid, a 1200-baud modem, a parallel printer port, and 64Kbytes memory, and it cost around $1,800.

After he returned from Washington, D.C., Daniel resumed his usual summer activities. He worked at the tailor shop…

._.. also known as becoming knowledgeable about fashion, etiquette, gourmet food and wines, and all the finer things in life… Mr. Eregov certainly knew how to live well and look good doing it, and he was happy to teach me everything I wanted to know about enjoying wealth without appearing 'nouveau riche…_'

He spent time with Pete…

_… also known as working at LPD…._

He helped his parents with their Committee work…

_… also known as spying on my country…._

He wrote his pen pal Ensio…

_…my long-distance friend…._

He wrote his pen pal Alla…

_… my long-distance temptress…._

Also, when his parents were asleep or busy with their own activities, Daniel planned his escape from the future that had been devised for him.

_No way in Hell was I attending Phystech in Moscow—I didn't care if it was free and if it did offer the classes I wanted… I wasn't even willing to attend the university Mom preferred in Austria… as much as I love my parents and as much as I owe them, I wanted to live my own life… the second I turned eighteen, I was done with being a spy and a traitor… and, by then, I planned to be accepted at the college of my choice with all the money I needed—whether I went as Daniel Sutterfield or someone else…._

With that goal in mind, Daniel made his plans.

_It took a while to work it all out in my head… I needed a fake identity, but it had to be foolproof—something neither the KGB nor the FBI nor anyone who knew me could uncover… it had to pass inspection by school and university administrators, data clerks and sysadmins, bureaucrats and functionaries… if I needed to disappear as Daniel Sutterfield and become my fake persona, that persona had to stand up to a lifetime of bureaucracy and paperwork—credit checks, employment background checks, college applications, passport applications—whatever I might face… this ID had to be rock-solid because I might be trusting my life and my freedom to it… my first step was to get a valid Social Security number…._

Daniel's mother had showed him the standard method for this.

_Mom's way required finding a child who was born in the same year that my fake persona was "born," but who died before receiving a SS number… once I have a name and birth location, I then request an official copy of that child's birth certificate then I use that certificate to get the Social Security Administration to assign a number to this child… the SSA does not check to see if the applicant is dead before sending a new card with that child's name on it… this method does work, but I don't have the time to hunt through newspaper obituaries and local cemeteries to find a dead kid born in 1958… plus, I want a name that isn't tied to where I live… fortunately, I knew another way…._

The next time Mr. Sutterfield went in to work on a Saturday, Daniel went with him, using the explanation that he needed to test part of a computer text adventure he was writing.

_Dad thought that was so cool—and it was… but the test only took a few seconds of runtime… no one seemed to mind me using the department's mainframe on the weekends, but I was careful not to use too many computer cycles in case there were employees doing real work… when my test was finished, I accessed the Social Security database—you don't need the details of the route I used because it isn't available any more… since I knew what record I wanted, it took me no time to find it…._

X'43D5393'31807XXXX*RET*WREN*HAROLD*ANSON*M*031819 86*11051966*70*ROSSCITYIL*IL*IL*RT6BOX43*ROSSCITY* IL**

_Since Social Security numbers are never reissued, I knew Mr. Wren's record will remain in the system forever… the only people who might prompt an access to it were Mr. Wren's family… Mrs. Wren died earlier this year so any Social Security benefits she was getting had ended… I couldn't go to her funeral because I was in the middle of final exams… Mrs. Wren's daughter sent me a copy of her obituary from the local paper… on our way to Washington, we visited the cemetery in Ross City and saw their graves… I owe both of them my life… I really wish I could have asked their permission for this… all I could do was hope Mr. Wren wouldn't mind…._

Daniel changed the RET in the file record to ACT and the 03181986 to his own birth date minus 16 days. He blanked out the death date, location, and age at death in the record, then he changed the current address to that of an apartment he had rented near LaSalle College in a neighborhood of off-campus housing.

_I needed an address so I could request a replacement card… receiving it would confirm I had made no errors while bringing 'Harold Wren' back to life… the apartment also gave me a hidey-hole in case I needed to bolt for whatever reason—not that I ever expected to need it…._

Three weeks later, when a freshly printed blue card arrived at the apartment, Daniel grinned at his success.

_But that was the easy part… I next had to turn 'Harold Wren' into a high school student… ._

Creating Steven Nemo had been easy; all that took was a record inserted into the school's database and some fancy footwork and gossip in the hallways. "Harold Wren," incoming junior at Ferdinand High School, required a full set of records, both paper and computer, if "he" wanted to apply to the colleges Daniel wished to attend.

_Fortunately, I had my own records to draw on… and access to the school's supply cabinet, copy and mimeograph machines, and its typewriters… add in Mom's special papers, forms, and inks, and I had everything I needed to build a student file… it took me almost six months to create all the paperwork, but even that wasn't the hard part…._

The "hard part" consisted of reprogramming the school district's database software to update "Harold Wren's" records so that "his" grades, test scores, and information matched those of Daniel.

_If I had to use this persona to get into college, I wanted the best shot possible—which meant using my grades… yes, it sounds boastful, but I was at the top of my class… so I wrote some code that would keep all data pertaining to 'Harold Wren' synced with my data…whenever my records were updated, my code would change the records for 'Harold Wren' to match them… when I was certain it would work, I got into the school district's mainframe from a remote location then I accessed the software that maintained the student database… there, I found a section of 'dead code' in the file update program—a routine that was not accessed anymore because all the calls to it have been removed during revisions to the software… I added my code to maintain 'Harold Wren' to that routine then I added a call to it from another section of the program… that way, the 'dead code' would show as active and not be deleted during a recompile … as soon as this was in place, I then hacked the compiler so it would check the file update program for my code and, if it did not find it, the compiler would reinsert all of it into the new version of the program… I also modified the compiler so that, if the compiler was revised and recompiled, it would reinsert my compiler hack into the new version of itself—this meant my code stayed resident with no traces in the source code… the likelihood of a programmer finding what I had done approached zero… yes, this means I anticipated Ken Thompson's truly moby hack of the C compiler by eight years… not that I envy Ken his Turing Award—not much, anyway…._

Once the code was in place, all Daniel had to do was monitor its results. As his junior year of high school progressed, "Harold Wren" earned the same grades and plaudits that Daniel did.

_I really wanted to tell someone about this… after all, what's the good of being brilliant if no one ever gets to see you shine? However, I knew better than to blab… a secret ID is useless if it isn't a secret…._

Daniel also set up bank accounts in "Harold Wren's" name at several banks around town using money from his own accounts.

_If worst came to worst and I had to become "Harold Wren," then I could withdraw the money, either in person or by wire transfer, and have more than enough to start a new life—not that I wanted to… all I wanted was for my parents to forget about Phystech so I could go where I wanted for college… I had plenty of options here in the U.S… if only my parents weren't spies…._

Sutterfield Residence  
>Sunday, January 19, 1975<br>Day – 9,841

The news of Daniel's acceptance into the Institute of Precision Mechanics and Computer Engineering of the Soviet Academy of Sciences came in a phone call from Paul Lukin to Daniel's father. When the phone rang, Mrs. Sutterfield and Daniel were in the kitchen watching Mr. Sutterfield prepare his luncheon specialty, canned cream of mushroom soup with grilled cheese sandwiches using pumpernickel bread.

_I took over on the griddle while Dad talked… after he hung up, Dad told us the 'good' news, and that Mr. Lukin had said to congratulate me and to tell Mom he was sorry… Mr. Lukin knew how much Mom wanted me to follow her brothers' footsteps and go to Technical Institute in Vienna... right then, I'd have happily volunteered to go there—anything to get out of going to the USSR… I wanted to tell Mom and Dad that—hell, I wanted to tell both of them I hated being a spy, but Dad was so proud of me… so was Mom, although she sighed and frowned a little when Dad relayed Mr. Lukin's apology… Dad saw her sigh, too…._

Mr. Sutterfield waited until his family was seated at the table with their meals before them before addressing that matter.

"Paul said," he said in a cheery voice, "all Daniel's expenses—tuition, books, room, board, even his travel to Moscow-will be covered. Sounds like can we take his college money and use it for something else."

Mr. Sutterfield then turned to his wife.

"Clara, how much have we saved for Daniel's college expenses?"

"As of your last paycheck," she said, "the total is six thousand, two hundred, and ninety-two dollars and twenty-eight cents."

Mr. Sutterfield grinned as he pointed his soup spoon at his wife.

"That's one of the many things I love about you," he told her. "You are always on top of everything. Okay, we have six thousand, two hundred, and ninety-two dollars with a handful of change that is no longer earmarked for anything. Any ideas what we should do with it?"

Daniel opened his mouth to suggest the money be spent on a new Orange Flame Corvette with a black interior and a 350ci, 250hp engine, but he noticed that his dad was still looking at his mom. Realizing that Mrs. Sutterfield was being given first shot at the money, Daniel kept silent and waited for her to speak. To his surprise, she looked down at her sandwich for what seemed like hours. Daniel glanced at his Dad, who also sat quietly…

_… except he had a big smile on his face…._

Finally, Mrs. Sutterfield gulped and raised her head. Her eyes were damp, but she also was smiling.

"_Wien,"_ she whispered. "We're going to _Wien_."

Her husband's smile widened into a grin.

"Durned tooting we're going to Vienna. I'm booking a flight to New York City, a cabin on the Queen Elizabeth 2, a sleeper on the Orient Express then _whoosh—_we'll be in Vienna before we know it. Daniel, you mind if I take your mother to Europe without you?"

"I—I guess not."

_Actually, I was jealous as all get out, but Mom was so happy to visit her birth city that I didn't want to complain… they went in April—took the entire month… and they sent me a postcard every day, starting with the one Mom mailed at the LaSalle airport before their flight left—how goofy is that?_

Daniel was allowed to stay by himself while his parents were gone.

_Pete's parents kept an eye on me… I ate most of my dinners with them… and I got to drive Dad's car to school… I hated giving that up when they got back…._

In his parents' absence , Daniel handled their Committee work and he spent more time with Mr. Bennett and Pete at LPD.

_We were starting our own line of computer products: CPUs, peripherals, cables—both assembled and DIY kits… sort of like the Altair, but with faster runtimes and less complicated assembly… I also was working on a portable computer—think Xerox Notetaker or the Osbourne I… had I managed to finish that project, I'd have beaten the Osbourne I to market by about five years…._

When his parents returned from their trip, Daniel considered discussing with them the matter of his going to Moscow.

_We really didn't talk about in January… maybe I did too good a job of pretending I was thrilled… maybe Mom was hoping things would fall through and I would attend university in Vienna like she wanted me to do… and maybe Dad knew how disappointed Mom was so he stayed far away from the subject…._

The discussion with his father did not go as Daniel hoped.

"Dad, can I talk to you about me going to Moscow?"

"Sure. You worried about being so far away from home?"

"That's part of it, but—"

Mr. Sutterfield put his hand on Daniel's shoulder to reassure him .

"I was scared when I joined the Army, and I was shaking in my boots right before my unit got sent to France. There's no shame in being scared, but don't let your fear eat at you."

"Dad, it's not that I'm scared. It's more like—"

"Frankly, " his father said, "I'm relieved to know your future is taken care of. Mom and I could never have swung this on our own. You know how little we were able to save towards your college education. Without Phystech, there'd be no way we could pay for the sort of education you deserve. If I was a praying man, I'd be on my knees in gratitude for this—I really would."

He patted Daniel's shoulder then smiled proudly at him.

"Put all of this from your mind for now. You only get to be this age once so enjoy life and have fun."

_It was good advice—not that it helped any… I then tried to explain things to Mom…._

"Mom, about my going to Phystech—"

"That is a long time from now, Daniel. Let's not think about it until then."

"But, Mom—pretty soon everyone will be applying to colleges—"

"And you need something to explain why you're not also sending applications?"

"Well, not exactly—"

"You should tell them that you have been accepted to the _Technische Universität Wien _as I wish had happened. I doubt any of your friends or teachers will go to the trouble of a long-distance call or letter to verify your story."

Daniel noticed how his mother's lips thinned as she made her suggestion.

_It was like she was forcing it through clenched teeth..._

"Mom, do you want me to study in Moscow?"

Mrs. Sutterfield let out a long sigh.

"You know we cannot risk any examination of our life—not even so much as an application to an out-of state university or a request for a tuition loan. If you had not been accepted to the Soviet Academy of Sciences, you would be attending a local college, and we both know no school in this state is good enough for you."

She paused to give her son that fond smile that always accompanied a statement of her pride in Daniel and his accomplishments.

"But we no longer need to concern ourselves with your education and that is good. It is very good."

_Sure, it was good, but only for my parents… they never thought to ask how I felt about it—oh, you think I could have been more forceful? You think I should have stood up for my rights and demanded the to go to a U.S. college? That's easy for you to say… you grew up in a secure home with loving parents… for me, there was always the fear that my parents would turn on me and kick me out just like my foster parents often did… intellectually, I knew it would never happen… but that fear was seared into my soul—a scar from my childhood that never truly healed… add to that the constant, very real threat of discovery by the Feds and, as much as I wanted to protest, the words never were said…._

MacDonald's Restaurant  
>Ferdinand, MO<br>Thursday, August 28, 1975

Day -9623

MacDonald's was not Daniel's first, or even eighth choice for a place to eat, but Pete swore by their fries so, after classes that day, Daniel grabbed a corner table away from the counter while Pete got his crispy potato fix.

_We were there because Pete wanted to tell his parents about his college money—he had almost forty thousand dollars saved up—and that after he had purchased his Datsun 260Z … 2.6 liter engine with 162 horses and 157 four-pounds of torque, zero to sixty in eight sections with a top speed of 127 mph—and we ran it to the redline plenty of times on the straightaway west of town… Pete picked the Green Leaf Metallic paint job despite Mr. Bennett's warning that all green sports cars fall apart in six months… he called it the British Racing Green Conundrum… anyway, Pete thought we should tell our parents at the same time—make a grand celebration of it..._

Daniel listened to his friend make his case then he launched into his standard cover story.

"Pete, you know I'm going to that tech school in Vienna. It's not like I can surprise my folks about that fact."

Pete waved a ketchup-tipped fry at Daniel.

"But college in Austria has to be expensive," he noted, "so why would your parents be upset about you paying for all of it?"

Daniel filched a fry and nibbled on it to give him time to think.

_My parents think I agree with them that capitalism is an outdated and failed materialistic value system… if I announce that I have more money saved and invested than I could have earned from tailoring, tutoring, and helping out Mr. Bennett, they will ask where it came from… when they learn I own one-third of a corporation, it will break their hearts… so, if they can't be proud of me, I'd rather they didn't know… but that doesn't help me right now with Pete…._

"Look, Pete," Daniel finally said, "I waiting for the right time to tell them I'm not going to Vienna."

Pete froze with a ketchup-covered fry dangling before his lips.

"You aren't going to Vienna?"

Daniel shook his head.

"I'm staying here. I plan to apply to Stanford and MIT and a couple other good schools. Once I have their acceptance letters in-hand, I can talk to my parents about earning my Bachelor's here and then maybe going to Vienna for advanced studies."

_Or something like that… more like nothing like that at all…._

The fry found its way into Pete's mouth as he considered Daniel's plan.

"Think your folks will go for that?" he asked.

Daniel shrugged.

"Don't know, but I'll be more persuasive with a fat bank account and a fistful of acceptance letters than I will with just the money—that's how set Mom is on my going to Vienna."

Pete stopped chewing to gape at his friend.

"Man, your mom is one determined lady. My mom would let me major in underwater basket-weaving if I told her she didn't have to pay a dime toward my tuition."

"Your mom and my mom are two very different people, Pete."

"I'll say. Hey, does this mean you don't want to be there when I tell my folks?"

"Probably not. I don't want Mom or Dad suspecting anything until I'm ready to tell them."

_Pete groused a bit about my decision, but everything else went just like he hoped… his mom cried… his dad kept clapping Pete on the shoulder as though he wanted to hug him but feared Pete was too old for that sort of thing… I have to admit I was jealous, but I still had time to do things my way… I wasn't due to leave for Moscow until the end of May, two weeks after graduation…._

Over the next few months, Daniel applied to many colleges and universities: Stanford, MIT, Purdue, Carnegie-Mellon, University of Maryland, University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill, Florida Atlanta University—if the school had a computer science or computer systems program, then he send in applications for both him and "Harold Wren."

_ The closer I got to Spring 1976, when seniors were expected to have their colleges lined up, the more I feared I'd have to use my false persona… yes, I should have told my parents the truth, but I simply could not do it… just like I couldn't write Alla and tell her what I thought of her machinations… I settled for writing her polite letters ending telling her how I looked forward to seeing her soon—so, between the expectations of my teachers, Alla's insistence that we'd be so happy once I got to Moscow, my parents being so thrilled about Phystech, and their stupid Committee work that forced me to apply in secret… bluntly, I spent my senior year feeling like a fox being hunted by trappers… one false move and I'd step on a trap…._

Sutterfield Residence  
>Tuesday, March 16, 1976<br>Day -9422

Daniel was upstairs in the radio shack trouble-shooting a buzzy speaker when his mother called him down to the kitchen. He took the stairs two at a time to find her standing by the last step, a thick business envelope in her hand. Her frown warned Daniel that he had been busted so he put a brave smile on his face before pointing at the letter in her hand.

"Is the mail here?" he asked. "I checked on my way in and didn't see any."

His mother held the letter out, its address facing Daniel.

"Why is Carnegie-Mellon University sending mail to you?"

The question sent his stomach into his throat. Daniel swallowed against the nausea before replying.

"Because I sent them an application."

"Why?"

_Somehow, my mom dumped a boatload of demand and concern and threat onto that one syllable…._

"Because, Mom."

Daniel reached for the envelope. Mrs. Sutterfield snatched it back from his hand.

"Because why?"

He sighed, using the breath as a cover for some rapid thinking.

"Because everyone else is sending out applications, and I want to get more acceptance letters than they do."

His mother peered even harder at him, a stare Daniel knew was a demand for more information.

"Mom," he said, "for me, it's a game, a way to keep score. When the school holds its honors assembly for the seniors, they'll announce how many college acceptances each student received. I'm the valedictorian, top of my class. People will wonder if only _Technische Universität Wien_ is interested in me."

He pointed at the envelope.

"You taught me the most important thing is to never look suspicious. That acceptance letter, and all the others I receive, make me look like everyone else. That's why I did it."

Mrs. Sutterfield glanced at the letter in her hand.

"How many of these acceptance letters do you have, son?"

"Seventeen."

_Harold Wren had sixteen—I don't know why FAU turned him down…._

"Why don't I know this?"

_Because I've been getting the mail every day for the last ten years… for all I knew, Mom had forgotten where our mail box was… but I didn't tell her that…._

"Like I said," Daniel said as he shrugged, "it's only a game."

His mother glanced at the letter again. Something in the way she frowned at it and in the way she gripped it so tightly made Daniel wonder if she had seen through his story.

_If she did—if she asked, I would have answered honestly… I hated lying to her and Dad… ._

Seconds passed without his mother saying a word.

_If anything, her grip on that letter got tighter…._

Finally, without raising her gaze from the letter, she spoke to her son.

"Daniel," she said, "the important people who arranged for you to be educated in Moscow expect you to do what they want. If something happens to prevent that, their anger will not be good for you, or for your father and me."

Daniel gasped at the threat. Mrs. Sutterfield nodded then she looked straight at him.

"I see you understand."

Daniel faked a smile.

"Then I guess it's a good thing I like their plans."

He waited for his mother to smile back. To his surprise, her gaze shifted to the envelope still in her hand.

"Daniel," she whispered as though fearing her own words, "If you truly want to go to college here, I will prepare false papers for you. Many teenaged boys run away—I read about them in the newspaper. We can make it look like you—"

Daniel jerked back from his mother.

_I knew what she was offering me—freedom, but at a horrible cost to her and Dad… if the Committee ever suspected Mom had been disloyal, both she and Dad would also "disappear…" for them, that meant either a bullet to the back of the head or a long stay in prison… but my freedom—my future—would never be worth their lives…._

"No, Mom," he said, his voice raised in a shout, "no way. How could you even think something like that? Don't you mean all that stuff you taught me?"

_It wasn't the most grammatical sentence ever spoken… but it convinced Mom I truly was horrified by her offer… she handed me the letter then she shook her head as though shocked by her words…._

"I don't know, son. Somehow, I had the idea you weren't happy about going to Moscow. This is wrong?"

Daniel took the letter from her then he faked a smile.

"Mom, you're way off-base. You must be thinking about some other son of yours."

This time, Mrs. Sutterfield did smile…

_… that goofy, fond smile that meant she was so proud of me… the one that always made me feel warm and good… only now, it felt like a trap snapped on my leg… I couldn't even gnaw it off and run away—okay, gnaw it off and limp away—because doing so would condemn my parents to prison or death…._

After dinner that night, Daniel sneaked into Cedar Street Elementary and used the office computer terminal to transfer "Harold Wren" to a high school in Helena, Montana.

_Transferring "Harold" was safer than deleting his records… I had enrolled him in MIT just in case I had to bolt in a hurry… if I had managed to get out of attending Phystech, I would have withdrawn "Harold" then used my own acceptance letter to enroll as myself… all "his" correspondence with MIT was hidden in a hidey-hole I'd made at the apartment I used as a mail drop… my plan was to destroy everything linking me to "Harold" before the lease ran out the end of May…._

The next day, during his work period in the school office, Daniel filed the transfer paperwork for "Harold" in the appropriate folders in the office file cabinets.

_I hated doing this—I hated it so much I almost threw up on the files… but, after what Mom told me, I no longer had a choice… I was going to Moscow—to Phystech… the trap had been locked on my leg and all I could do was learn to enjoy the pain…._


	17. Ave Atque Vale

Author's Notes (feel free to skip):

There will be an epilogue following this chapter.

_Lapis: _think Microdata Reality (if you're into defunct computer systems)

BizComp Magazine: not a real publication. Jed Michelson is fictitious, too.

IBM and BUNCH: IBM and its main competitors: Burroughs, UNIVAC, NCR, Control Data Corporation, and Honeywell. They were the biggies in the computer industry in the 1970s. McDonald-Douglas (McKenna in this story) moved into the field in the early eighties.

_TV show about a trucker:_ Movin' On, with Claude Atkins and Frank Converse

_Webster Groves_: a suburb of St. Louis, MO, the city fictionalized as LaSalle in this story

_Lacoste_: the golf shirts with the crocodile on them and considered fancy in 1976

_Newell boot_s: ankle-high lace-up shoes made from Italian calfskin

_Ave Atque Vale: _ Latin for "Hail and farewell." Famously used by Gaius Valerius Catullus in his tribute to his dead brother.

There is some foul language in this chapter.

Ferdinand, Missouri  
>Wednesday, May 19, 1976<br>Day –9358

For the graduating class of 1976 of Ferdinand High school, Monday was the first day of adulthood. Their baccalaureate had been held the previous Friday night at the First Methodist Church with their graduation ceremony on Saturday in the basketball arena at the university. Sunday, for some of them, had been spent sleeping through hangovers from the after-ceremony parties. Others, like Daniel, had attended a celebratory dinner/dance sponsored by the church Pete attended and weren't suffering the same pain.

_We probably had more fun—or at least less vomiting and passing out… I spent Sunday with my parents… Dad and I developed the photos he took of the principal announcing my name… of me rising to my feet… me walking to the stage… me climbing the steps of the stage… me crossing the stage to where Mr. Finelly stood… Mr. Finelly shaking my hand… me getting my diploma… me returning to my seat… Mom and me with my diploma afterward… Pete and me with our diplomas… oh, and several dozen shots of me giving the class's valedictory…._

Daniel's speech had been titled_ "In Awe of Our Future."_

_I spoke on the myriad of opportunities greeting us students after we accepted our diplomas and left the stage as high school graduates—well, most of us, anyway… I had only one path ahead of me and it led straight to Moscow and Phystech… and I had only two weeks of freedom left to me…._

Daniel spent the daylight hours of Monday and Tuesday helping Mr. Eregov with his new assistant.

_Jamie Oldham, the son of the owner of Oldham's Florist across the street from the tailor shop… Jamie was the first kid in three generations to have pollen allergies, which made it difficult for him to work at his family's business… he was eager to learn and he had a good eye for color and pattern… Mr. Eregov let me begin Jamie's training—how to measure, the correct way to knot thread, how to use a press cloth…Mr. Eregov could have shown Jamie these skills, but I think he wanted to keep me around the shop a few days longer… he thinks I'm going to Vienna… only Dad, Mom, Mr. Lukin, and I know the truth… Tuesday evening, the Eregovs had me over for dinner… Mrs. Eregov made _plov, _ a spicy rice pilaf with beef cooked in lamb fat… she said it was the national recipe of Uzbekistan… I had three helpings and left with a copy of the recipe for Mom… I'm going to miss the Eregovs… I could discuss politics and history with him… he was a socialist, but also open-minded enough to see that other economic constructs had their strengths…._

Tuesday evening was spent watching TV with his parents.

_I can't remember what was on—something about a trucker and the law student traveling with him… I really didn't want watch anything that reminded me of college… Dad talked about work during the commercials—McKenna work, not Committee work… Mom seemed sort of uptight… like she wanted to say something, but wasn't sure how to do it or if this was the best time for it… she kept glancing at Dad—never at me… I had a lot of stuff to do at LPD the next day, but I decided to get home before Dad did so I could ask Mom what was bothering her… other than that, it was a normal evening…._

Wednesday, Daniel got up in time to eat breakfast with his father before Mr. Sutterfield left for work. His excuse for not sleeping in was that he wanted to spend the day hanging out with Pete.

_Dad told me to have fun and to say 'Hi' to Pete… after he left for work, Mom and I washed the breakfast dishes… I knew she was spending her morning at the library—she helped with preschool story time on Wednesdays… I was heading out to get my bike and leave when Mom called to me… I walked back to her and she gave me a big hug… her eyes were damp like she might start crying… so I did the only thing I could think of—I hugged her back... we stood there for a few seconds then Mom released me… her gaze never left my face… it was like she was storing it in memory…._

"I have to stock up while I can," she said. "My son, now an adult and about to fly from my nest. You do know that your father and I love you and we're so very proud of you?"

_My own eyes were getting blurry and my throat was kind of clogged up… so I nodded… then Mom reached out to put her hand on my cheek… for some reason, I wished I had taken the time to shave that morning so she didn't feel the stubble… she didn't seem to mind… she just smiled at me for a moment then she stepped back… I remembered how she'd been acting the night before, and I asked if everything was okay…._

Mrs. Sutterfield broke into a wide smile.

"Everything is as it should be, my son. Always remember that. Now, go hang out with Pete and have a wonderful time."

"You sure? I could stick around a while—at least until you head to the library."

His mom snorted at his offer.

"We both know you have little enough time left. I've had my hug and that's all I need."

With that said, Mrs. Sutterfield grabbed a dish towel from the oven door and flicked it at him.

"Go," she said with a laugh. "Spend the day having fun. Be home by five for me."

Daniel dodged the towel assault and headed for the back door. He paused at the threshold to wave at his mom. She flicked the towel again, its _snap_ and the fond smile on her face serving as her good-bye.

_I couldn't blame Mom for feeling sad about my upcoming departure—and it explained those looks from her the night before… so I rode my bike to LPD's offices… there, I took care of some paperwork … looked over final test protocols for Lapis, our entry into the business mini-computer market… Lapis was a 16-bit_ _micro-programmed system supporting multiple interactive users… I did the design work, but our team of systems programmers wrote the high-end languages and the user interfaces… I really wanted to do it all myself, but time didn't permit… Mr. Bennett was managing the manufacturing end of the project while Pete set up our marketing and the dealer network… this was a huge and very dicey venture for us… so many companies were vying for a slice of this market that Jed Michelson, editor-in-chief at BizComp Magazine, stated in his column dated June 15, 1976 that '… none of the smaller companies stand a chance against IBM and the BUNCH.…' I wish I could have seen Michelson's face when LPD sold its 100__th__ mini-computer… or its 1,000__th__… or when LPD took over Univac in 1985 and Burroughs in 1987, making Pete and his uncle two of the top corporate IT executives in the country… but I wasn't a part of their future success… one of the things I took care of on that Wednesday was the transfer of all my shares in LPD back to Mr. Bennett and Pete… I put the duly executed forms in a manila envelope labeled "In case anything happens to David Sutter" then I gave it to Mr. Bennett's secretary to file…._

Everyone agreed that this was merely a precaution against Daniel suffering an incapacitating accident while at university in Vienna. Only Daniel knew the truth.

_I wasn't coming back… my career as a capitalist was over… and there was no reason to make things difficult for Mr. Bennett and Pete—they weren't to blame for my choices…._

Pete caught up with Daniel in the company's cafeteria at lunchtime. They sat at a corner table, Pete with a hamburger and fries, Daniel with a turkey club sandwich and dill pickle. They discussed the dealer network, the colors and fonts for the promotional brochures, the size and location of the Lapis logo on the front of the minicomputer case, and other incidentals until Pete stuck a French fry in Daniel's face.

" I'm only going to ask you this once more—"

Daniel forced a smile then said, "Because I decided Vienna was the right place for me to study after all."

Pete glared at his friend for knowing what the question would be.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Daniel nodded.

"If it makes you feel better, I did tell my parents about having enough money to cover my tuition and expenses—but not how I earned it. Please don't ever mention LPD or the work I did here to them, okay?"

Pete cocked his left eyebrow as he considered his friend's request.

"Are you ever going to tell me why you're keeping your parents in the dark?"

Daniel raised a shoulder as though shrugging away the question then he waited until Pete had taken a bite of his burger.

"Because my folks are communists who think corporations are evil incarnate."

Half-chewed burger spewed from Pete's mouth to land on the table between the two friends. A string of curse words followed, only to be drowned by Daniel's laughter.

_Damn, it felt good to tell someone the truth for once… even if Pete didn't believe me… all he did was wipe his face, clean up the table, then tell me 'Fine, keep your secrets….'_

"But," Pete continued, "for keeping my mouth shut, you owe me Spring Break 1977 in Austria. I want fine wine, great food, and lovely ladies, and I expect you to deliver—got that?"__

Daniel faked a wide and knowing grin as he lied to his friend.

"Agreed. You and me-we'll do the continent in style."

The conversation returned to business, which occupied Daniel's mind and kept him from dwelling on the massive deceptions he was committing.

_But I still had almost two weeks to ignore the fact that I was going to disappear into Soviet Russia, never to be seen or heard from again… almost two weeks to pretend I was really going to Vienna—and that, every summer vacation and also after I got my degree, I would return to my work at LPD… God, how I wished that were true…._

Daniel wrapped up everything on his agenda around three p.m. He stopped by Lucas Bennett's office to say good-night then he went outside to get his bike from the rack and head home. His route took him through the city cemetery to Weaver Road, which intersected his street four blocks north of his house. Daniel slowed for that intersection, ignoring the stop sign as he checked right, then left for traffic.

_Holy Shit!_

He grabbed both handbrakes, slewing his bike sideways. As soon as it came to a stop and his feet touched pavement, Daniel swung his right leg over the bar. He tossed the bike into a laurel bush in the corner yard then he ducked behind the shrub, using its branches as cover.

_No, it wasn't an oncoming truck... thankfully, there weren't any cars on either road at that time… and no one took any notice of me stopping… there were a few neighbors on their porches and standing in their yards, but they all were looking down the street toward my house…._

What held their attention was a line of black and dark blue Ford sedans parked in front of the Sutterfields' house. Dark-suited men with razor-cut hair were everywhere: the lawn, the sidewalk, the porch, the driveway, all watching the porch of Daniel's house, where two agents were leading Mrs. Sutterfield from her home. Daniel saw her, head held high and her arms bound before her in cuffs, walk down the walkway to the street, where an agent held a car door open for her.

_Mom!_

Although it felt like he had screamed her name, none of the agents nor any of his neighbors reacted. Daniel's muscles tensed and adrenaline surged through him, preparing him to run the four blocks to rescue his mother from the FBI who were taking her away.

_But I didn't run to her… Dad and Mom had drilled me over and over on what I must do if one or both of them were caught… they started training me the week I figured out they were spies… I knew the checklist backward and forward… and it didn't include trying to fight off a dozen Feds or getting myself arrested… so my training overrode my urge to rescue Mom—that and a mental image of her scolding me for failing to do my duty…._

Daniel stepped away from the laurel bush and checked his surroundings. No one was paying any attention to him.

_First, I was supposed to destroy everything—Dad's darkroom equipment, Mom's counterfeiting supplies, the contact lists and methods used to reach other agents that were hidden in the hidey holes in my closet and the basement… but I had to hope Mom had taken care of them… so I moved on to the next item on the checklist…._

Daniel picked up his bike. Slowly, so as to not draw notice to himself, he rode back the way he had come.

_I needed to call Dad and Mr. Lukin—preferably from two separate pay phones… I had to get to our two personal caches and empty them, destroying any contents I didn't use for my own escape… next, I was supposed to go to our dead drops and leave a sign at each of them that we had been compromised… then, and only then, could I go to a Committee safe house… both Dad and Mom stressed that the well-being of all the Committee's agents had to come before my own escape… so I rode in the direction of the nearest cache, looking out for a payphone along my route… and making sure no on was following me… doing this kept me focused—kept me from panicking or freezing up… or thinking about Mom in handcuffs…._

At a pay phone two blocks from the city cemetery, Daniel dropped a dime in the coin slot then dialed his father's work number. It rang five times being answered by the secretary for Mr. Sutterfield's department. Daniel asked her to tell his father that he couldn't reach his mother so he wanted his dad to know he was having pizza with the guys for dinner.__

"Tell him I'll be in at the usual time."

_The pertinent parts of the message were "can't reach Mom"… that means she's under arrest… and "usual time"… that means I'm doing that I was taught to do… and "pizza"… that meant I was going to the safe house in Webster Groves… there were three around LaSalle, all with food names… Dad knew to meet me there… if Dad was still free… if he hadn't been arrested—don't think about that… concentrate on finding another pay phone…. _

A block closer to the cemetery, Daniel called Mr. Lukin from a phone outside a gas station.

_His answering service picked up the call… I recognized the woman's voice… I asked her to tell Mr. Lukin Mom wanted him to arrive for dinner at 6 p.m., not seven… that told him it was Mom who was compromised and where she'd been arrested… there was a different number for all the locations she spent time at during her day… maybe he already knew… maybe he was on the run like I was—trying to destroy incriminating materials before the Feds found them… don't think about that—don't…._

With those two calls made, Daniel rode into the city cemetery, using a circuitous route to reach his destination. When he was certain he was not under surveillance, he got off his bike and walked it along a path through the older section of the graveyard until he reached an immense headstones carved with weeping willows and angels framing the name "Engelhardt." Before it, eleven footstones, smaller angled granite blocks, marked the graves of the Engelhardt family, all of whom had died in a house fire in 1894. After another check to make certain he was alone, Daniel leaned over and shifted the footstone of Imogene Engelhardt, aged seven. His action exposed a hollow under the stone that contained a package wrapped in black plastic. Daniel grabbed the package then put the marker back in its place.

_Inside the plastic was three sets of Mom's best work: passports, driver's licenses, social security cards with gas and credit cards that matched the IDs, two thousand dollars in twenties and fifties, and a revolver and a box of .38 ammunition… I stuffed the licenses and cards in my back left pocket and the wad of money in my hip pocket… I made sure to wipe my fingerprints from the gun and the box of bullets before I hid them and the plastic under some wilted floral arrangements in a trash can… my next stop was three miles away on the south side of Kinloch Field… I really wanted to ride past McKenna's employee parking to see if I could spot Dad's car, but I knew better… if Dad had been arrested, then it was on me to make sure everything was secured… so I made a wide detour around the airport to reach our second cache—a metal box hidden in some woods twenty yards east of McKenna Road and directly in line with the center of Runway 30L… I put those IDs and the money in my pockets then I dug a hole with a stick and buried the box… the revolver and the ammo from this cache I buried in a separate hole in the hope that no one would ever find them… it was about then the adrenaline ran out and I started to shake… I leaned against a tree trunk, my legs were too wobbly to support me… all I could think of was Mom between those two agents, her hands bound in front of her…._

Daniel stood there for what felt like hours, cold sweat soaking his shirt as he gasped and shook, his heart beating so hard he thought it would shred itself against his ribs.

_Mom in handcuffs… Mom in an interrogation room… Mom in court, being tried for espionage… Mom behind bars forever… and maybe Dad, too… maybe they arrested him first… grabbed him at work before they went to our house… if the Feds have both of them, then that leaves only me… and I have four thousand dollars and two brand new identities in my hip pocket…_

The thought shocked Daniel from his panic

_It scared me almost as much as seeing Mom in handcuffs…however, it was obvious-following orders had given me everything I needed to run away from the Committee… from Moscow and Phystech… from Alla and her honey trap… and from my parents' belief that I was a good son who would do my duty to them, the Committee, and the USSR… Mom as much as told me her and Dad's lives were forfeit if I didn't go to Moscow… but she was in FBI custody... and Dad was either in custody with her or busy trying to stay free… same with Mr. Lukin and the others… would the Committee really blame my parents if I failed to show up at the safe house? Maybe they would, but this was my chance to reclaim my life… to abandon my parents—to betray what they believe for what I believe… it was an awful, horrible choice..._

Daniel examined the idea, searching it for flaws.

_If I ran, it had to be as 'Harold Wren' because Mom had made the IDs in my pocket… she picked the names on them… and both she and Dad had taught me that anyone can be broken—don't think about that… think instead about whether 'Harold Wren' can withstand a FBI manhunt… and a KGB manhunt… they'll both be looking for me… did I want to spend my life looking over my shoulder… wondering if the people walking with me on the sidewalk, sitting with me in class, working with me, dating me… wondering if one of them is about to arrest or kill me?_

Just then, a car horn blared on the road outside the woods.

_At that moment, it sounded like a voice from the heavens, saying, 'Why are you wasting your time deciding? Get yourself to MIT where you belong…' so I rode straight to the apartment I had rented the year before under the name 'David Sutter,' the one I used for 'Harold Wren' and his college applications… I kept my head down and obeyed all the traffic rules to keep from attracting anyone's attention… I was afraid the FBI had contacted the local police—you know, Be On The Lookout for Daniel Sutterfield, aged seventeen, five-nine, one hundred and twenty pounds, light brown hair, blue eyes… last seen wearing jeans, a navy blue T-shirt and riding a red Schwinn Deluxe Touring Paramount ten-speed… hell, two days ago I stood up in front of what felt like the entire populace of Ferdinand and was honored as the smartest student in my class—no way I wouldn't be recognized by somebody if I didn't change my looks right away… yes, I was riding away from everything my parents expected of me—don't thing about that… don't…._

When he reached the apartment building, Daniel carried his bike up the stairs to the third floor then he examined the apartment's door carefully.

_No sign that anyone else has been inside… not that there was anything to implicate my parents… only my secrets were there… along with a green plaid sleeper sofa, a card table and folding chair, a gooseneck lamp, and some kitchen and bathroom supplies—all purchased to make the landlord believe someone actually lived here…_

He locked the door behind him and set the bike against it . The apartment was a studio, one room with a kitchenette, closet, and bath…

_… and several hidey holes added by me after I rented the place._

Over the sink in the bathroom was a mirrored medicine chest set into the wall being two joists. Daniel had removed the fixture and reattached it so that it could be taken from its mounting without tools or hassle, the modifications hidden by a frame of quarter-round molding painted off-white to match the walls.

_Did you know that slot in the back of old medicine chests? People used to drop their dull razor blades through it so they wouldn't get cut throwing them in the trash… I found dozens of them when I was making that hiding place…._

Daniel removed the toiletries he had stored in the chest then he moved it from the wall, placing it on the floor by the toilet. He reached up, standing on his tiptoes, and took a large manila folder from a bracket set above the gap in the wall.

_'Harold Wren'… his passport, social security card, driver's license, his report cards and college acceptance letters—everything that made 'him' a 'real person….'_

He replaced the medicine chest in the wall then he went into the kitchenette. Thick black vinyl strips served as floor molding in that room. Daniel knelt at the corner by the refrigerator. Using his pocket knife, he pried loose a two-foot length of vinyl to reveal another hidey-hole.

_Hair dye, wire-rim glasses in my prescription, barber shears, and other items to change my appearance… I had bought them before I learned what would happen to my parents if I didn't go to Moscow… good thing I hadn't throw them away…._

An hour later, Daniel's light brown hair and eyebrows were dyed a darker brown.

_About the color they get when I'm not in the sun all day—call it my winter look… I trimmed the hair around my ears and neck as best I could then I combed it back with enough hair gel to make it stay… not only did that change the shape of my face, it added an inch to my height… and the wire-rims made me look more bookish—like a English major instead of a computer geek who liked bikes and running…._

He stripped to his shorts then, from the closet, he selected a pair of summer-weight wool slacks in gray and a pale blue Lacoste shirt, an outfit chosen with "Harold" in mind.

_Thanks to Mr. Eregov, I knew what styles and brand names impressed people and which made them sneer at you for being a small-town hick… not that Mr. Eregov ever sneered at a client… he merely made very emphatic suggestions… I put on the clothes then I swapped my cotton socks for blue wool and my sneakers for a pair of black Newell boots… a hound's tooth jacket in a charcoal lightweight wool completed the ensemble… I looked nothing at all like the real Mr. Wren—I'm certain he would have laughed at my boots had I ever worn them to his farm… but I wasn't trying to be him—no way would I ever fill his shoes… I was creating a persona I could live in for the rest of my life… and honoring his memory by using his name.…_

Daniel then took a battered leather litigator's bag from the closet.

_I bought it at a second-hand store in the neighborhood… 'Harold' didn't seem the Army surplus backpack type…_

He emptied the pockets of his jeans, putting their contents on the counter.

_The money and IDs from the caches, my pocket knife, a stainless steel Zippo lighter—no, I didn't smoke; it was a gift from Mr. Lukin and a handy item to carry—my wallet, a receipt for my lunch, and three bucks in change…._

After switching his own identification cards with those of "Harold," he slid the wallet, the two wads of cash, and his pocket knife and lighter into his slacks pockets. The rest of Harold's paperwork went into the inside pockets of his sports coat along with the barber shears. The IDs from the caches and everything that tagged him as Daniel Sutterfield went in the leather bag along with a second set of clothes from the closet.

_If I had to run, I wanted to be able to dump this bag and its contents…this way, nothing on my body or in my clothes tied me to the Committee, my parents, my high school, or LDP—other than the shears, knife, and lighter… I knew I would need them soon …._

Daniel then stripped the apartment, putting everything portable into a couple of trash bags that were part of his kitchen supplies.

_Leave nothing that can identify you behind… Dad taught me that—don't think about Dad… I wiped every surface in the apartment with a towel that also went into a bag, then I slung the strap of the leather bag over my shoulder, grabbed my bike and the bags, and I left…._

He tossed the trash bags into a Dumpster behind the apartment building. The Schwinn was left in a bike rack used by the tenants to await the first person who noticed its lack of a lock.

_I walked the five blocks to 'The Olde Volks Home,' a garage specializing in Volkswagen repair… they also fixed them up for sale… I knew the authorities would be watching the airport, the bus terminals, and the Amtrak station, and rental cars weren't an option for me because of my age… I used $850 of the cash from the caches to buy a 1965 Beetle—126,153 miles on the odometer, but the mechanics had rebuilt the engine and the transmission… it shifted smoothly and ran well… you want to know what color it was? Gray with a red interior and, yes—it had a radio… the second I pulled out of the garage's lot, I tuned it to the local news station… it took only a few minutes for my family's name to come through the speakers…._

"… in breaking news," the radio announcer read, "the Justice Department has announced the arrest of a local couple for espionage. Alan and Clara Sutterfield, of Ferdinand, are said to be part of a Soviet spy ring operating throughout the Midwest. The couple was taken into custody earlier today, Mr. Sutterfield from his job at McKenna Aerospace, and his wife at the family's home. Authorities are searching for Daniel Sutterfield, age seventeen, who was not at the Sutterfield residence—"__

_There was more, but I stopped listening when I heard Dad's name… they had Dad and Mom—my whole family—don't think about it… don't… I took a circuitous route out of town… west then north, hooking up with US 67 and taking the Clark Bridge over the Mississippi to Alton, Illinois… the sun was setting by then… east of Alton, I stopped at a roadside park—six parking spaces, two picnic tables with grills, and a brass plaque too covered with graffiti to tell who or what it memorialized… a street light provided enough light for what I had to do…._

Daniel emptied the identification cards and passports from his leather bag onto a picnic table. Using the barber shears, he cut everything into pieces. He then built a fire using the pieces and some food wrappers from the trash, lighting it with his Zippo and tending it until everything was burnt to ashes.

_Ashes can be analyzed so I scrapped them from the grill and scattered them over a wide area… I wiped the shears and the lighter carefully then I threw them into the woods… I enjoyed pitching the lighter…I wanted nothing that tied me to Mr. Lukin—he had orchestrated my future in Moscow… introduced me to Alla… arranged for my parents to adopt me not because they wanted a child to love, but because I was smart and the Committee wanted my brains… throwing his lighter away was like purging his evil from my life…._

The pocket knife was much harder to throw away.

_It was a gift from my Dad—not the one he had given me to keep the nightmares away, but a Swiss Army Tinker for my sixteenth birthday… I couldn't make it leave my hand… but I couldn't risk anything from my former life—not even that knife… It was bad enough burning Mom's meticulously made passports and IDs—she took such care with her work—'Son, people's lives may depend on every stroke of my pen...' I had laughed the first time Mom said that because it almost rhymed… now, my new life depended on the skills she had taught me… after my knife was gone, I would have nothing of them apart from memories… I was in tears by the time I manage to drop the knife in the parking lot… I wiped it clean and left it where someone would find it… maybe a kid who needed a good knife… and it was a good one…._

Daniel then turned his face toward the west, where the glow from LaSalle's city lights brightened the night sky.

_My friends all were back there… the men and women who had taught me and mentored me: my Scout leaders, my teachers, Mr. Bennett… and Pete—the two of us, we had stuck together just like Pete promised when we first became friends… my parents were back there, too—probably in the FBI offices downtown… at least I could keep track of what happened to them—newspapers and news reports loved stories about Soviet spies… but Mom and Dad never would know what happened to their son… they would learn I had avoided the FBI… and they might learn I hadn't followed orders and gone to a Committee safe house... but they would never know if I was dead or alive… all I could do was hope Mom meant what she said… because I would always love them and be proud of them… they were my family…._

He stared at the city glow for a moment, silently saying _Ave Atque Vale_ to those he was leaving behind, then he entered his car and drove away.

_From this point forward, for good or for ill, I was Harold Wren…._


	18. Epilogue

Author's Notes (feel free to skip)

_Challenger 604_: business jet made by Bombardier. Cabin height is 6'1" so tall people must duck their heads to move around. The 604 can fly approx. 4,700 miles (7,551km) before one has a forward lavatory, two rows of leather seats facing with a divan and two seats behind them, and a rear galley and lavatory. To see an interior, go to .  
><strong><br>**_ORY_: the IATA code for Orly Airport in Paris, France. The flight distance from there to NYC is approx. 3,636 miles (5,850 km.) Estimated flight time is 8.5 hours. (IATA is the acronym for the International Air Transport Association)

N-numbers are aircraft registration numbers assigned by (or requested from) the FAA. _N489LW _was unassigned at the time this was written.

TEB: "Teterboro is the oldest operating airport in the New York and New Jersey metropolitan area. Designated as a "reliever" airport, Teterboro's focus is on removing the smaller and slower aircraft from the regional air traffic that would cause major congestion at the Port Authority's commercial airports." (from its website: .com)

_Ken Greenbush_: think Ken Kesey crossed with Wavy Gravy; Gravy was born in Greenbush, NY.

_1966 Montreux Jazz Festival:_ the first year for this festival was 1967.

_Hirsch bourbon_: chosen because Michael Emerson said in an interview that he liked **it.** _Volsk, Saratov Oblast: _ A town approx. 900 km (560 miles) SE of Moscow. Population in 1980 was around 65,000.

_N.G. Chernyshevsky Saratov State University: _a Real University. The website mentioned in this story is fictitious

Nota bene: this is the end of this story. I'm gratified that so many of you enjoyed it. Thank you for your kind words and your reviews. 

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean  
>Monday, September 3, 2001<br>Day -120

The Challenger 604, tail number N489LW, was cruising at its assigned altitude of 34,500 feet after its departure from ORY with its destination TEB. The flight crew and one of its two passengers knew this data. The second passenger only cared about two things: landing in time for his wife's Labor Day cookout, and that his wife believed his trip to Europe was completely and totally business-related.

To keep from dwelling on the possibility that Olivia Ingram suspected otherwise, the second passenger asked the first one about his childhood, a request guaranteed to prompt an undoubtedly false but extremely entertaining story. True to form, the next three hours were filled with a convoluted yarn that ended with the line, "From this point forward, for good or for ill, I was Harold Wren."

Nathan put down his highball glass and gave his friend a hearty round of applause.

"Adopted by Soviet spies," he chuckled as he applauded. "I never would have suspected that from you—not in a million years."

Harold's half-smile accepted the praise while dismissing it.

"You wanted a story," he replied, "and I obliged. You do know that some people bring books or magazines to occupy themselves while traveling?"

He pointed to a stack of industry journals on the cabin's credenza. Nathan snorted at them.

"They're boring," he said, "and you aren't. Mind you, that wasn't your best story. My favorite is still the one where André ran away from the circus because his family was the "Flying Emeralds," Europe's premiere trapeze act, and they kicked him out for being petrified of heights."

Harold's half-smile twisted into a smirk.

"I like that one, too," he admitted.

"And," Nathan continued, "I liked the one about Stephen, younger brother of counter-culture guru Ken Greenbush, who went underground after an unfortunate LSD incident at the 1966 Montreux Jazz Festival. Tell me again: what made 'Stephen' resurface and join the real world?"

"An allergy to marijuana," Harold replied, "which his brother cultivated to keep him and his commune members in food and hallucinogenics. Stephen was sick of spending his life covered in hives so he changed his name and applied to MIT."

Nathan nodded.

"That's it. A ridiculous story, but much easier to believe than the one where a boy with your name grew up on a farm in small-town Iowa, just him and his Dad."

Harold shrugged as Nathan raised his glass in salute.

"To you and your stories," he toasted his friend. "May your imagination never dry up."

While Harold again shrugged off the praise, Nathan drained his glass.

"Speaking of drying up," he said, his gaze on the now-visible bottom of his drink, "I seemed to have done so. More Hirsch?"

Harold glanced at the untouched glass of bourbon sitting at his elbow.

"I was too busy entertaining you to drink mine. Why don't you help yourself?"

Nathan rose to his feet.

"I'll do that—right after I do terrible things to the aft lavatory."

His shoulders bent forward to avoid striking his head on the cabin's ceiling, Nathan made his way to the rear of the jet. Harold waited until the lavatory door had shut before he dimmed the cabin lights. The darkness allowed him see outside the cabin, when the stars were visible between flashes from the jet's anti-collision strobes.

_No city glow to block their light over the middle of the ocean … since that night, I've used more personas and names than even Nathan realizes… almost as many as I have stories of my childhood to keep him amused and off the track… if Nathan had any curiosity, any inclination to question this story's veracity, he would find news reports describing the Sutterfields' convictions for 'conspiracy to act as an agent of a foreign government,' and how they each received the maximum sentence of five years in prison… they served barely a month of their sentences… the Feds traded them for a captured CIA agent… they disappeared behind the Iron Curtain… that's why it was safe to tell this story… the only person to hear it will never think to check it out…._

Harold took a sip of his bourbon, savoring its rich, soft fire on his tongue.

_After the Soviet Union imploded in the early nineties, it was easier to get news from inside the country… I sent a request through channels at IFT requesting funding for subscriptions to the Itar-TASS wire service and all the computer-related Russian scientific journals… the journals were cover—I wanted the access to the news wire and this was the safest way to obtain it… I wrote some search programs to comb the news stories for words that would occur in reports about the Sutterfields—twenty years may have passed, but searching for their names was still too dangerous for me… it took almost three years to receive a result…._

MOSCOW, May 31, 1996 (Itar-Tass) – A former employee of the Committee for State Security, First Chief Directorate who was involved in a spy swap in August, 1977 died in Volsk on Thursday, as reported by the Main Secondary School No. 10 of Volsk, Saratov Oblast.

"We regret to inform that on May 30, one of our school's English and technical studies teachers, Alan Sutterfield, died at the age of 70 of a heart attack," his obituary notice says.

The article described how the Sutterfields were forcibly emigrated to the Soviet Union by the U.S. government in exchange for Fred Barnestable, a Central Intelligence Agency operative who had been caught bugging a Party official's hotel room in Kiev earlier that year. The Committee for State Security settled the Sutterfields in Volsk, arranging stipends, housing and teaching positions in recognition of their service to the USSR

_Only that one article… nothing more… no answers for any of the questions I had: did Dad ever think about me? Did he hate me? Acknowledge that I would have left in two weeks anyway so all I did was speed things up a little? Could he see the wisdom of me not being arrested? Did he die thinking I had betrayed him and Mom?_

Harold scrubbed all traces of his access of that feed and that article from IFT's servers then he took the rest of the day off to privately mourn his father's passing.

When Russian websites began linking into the World Wide Web, I sent my search spiders through them to look for the same keywords I used on the Itar-TASS news feed… none of my searches found anything for another five years—then, on April 21 of this year, one of them brought me a website….

The site was at a domain owned by the N.G. Chernyshevsky Saratov State University in Saratov, Russia.

_Students in the history department were compiling oral histories of the local elderly… most of them told stories of the deprivations suffered during WWII and what life was like under Soviet rule… but one interviewee surprised them with her stories of life in America…._

The webpage lead off with a photo of a frail white-haired woman with bright blue eyes obscured by thick glasses. She was sitting in an armchair in what looked to be a nursing home; the foot of a hospital bed and the corner of an ancient hospital monitor could be seen at the left edge of the photo. On the table to her right was a reading lamp, a thick tome whose title could not be clearly seen, and a gold-framed headshot of the woman and a man her own age.

_Dad and Mom_... _both white-haired and wrinkled… probably taken not long before Dad's death—he looks tired even though he's smiling…._

An afghan covered Mrs. Sutterfield's legs and a cape her shoulders, both knit from pale blue yarn. The skin of her hands, folded on her lap, had that same pale blue tint.

_Poor circulation… heart problems? Mom was 79 when this interview took place… its text displayed below her photo…._

Clara Sutterfield had told the students her life story from her childhood in Vienna through her life as a foreign agent in America.

_Mom spent more time on that period than she did on her life as a English teacher in Volsk… of course, that is what the students asked her about… several expressed interest in going to America for post-grad schooling or research work… Mom said she was sorry she could not advise them or recommend anything—'It's been too long,' she told them…._

The final series of questions and their answers resolved Harold's doubts.

_"Were you able to take anything with you when you left America?"_

"Yes, but only due to the courtesy of a FBI agent who must have taken pity on us. Just before we left Federal custody, he handed me a flat package wrapped in brown paper. He said nothing to me—just handed me the package and walked away. Of course, the CSS examined it thoroughly before I opened it in case it had been poisoned or bugged or who knows what."

_"What was in the package?"_

"A photograph, a very special photograph. If I had been able to pick one item from my life to take with me, it would have been that photo. I do not know how that man decided to give it to me, but I thank him every time I look at it. It's on the shelf behind you. I put it there so I can see it from this chair and from my bed."

The page's text broke around a color picture of that photo cradled in Mrs. Sutterfield's hands. Its silver frame held a black-and-white photo of the Sutterfield family sitting on the steps of their front porch in Ferdinand, Missouri.

_Dad took that photo the Sunday after I came to live with them… he put his camera on the hood of his car and set its timer so he could be in the photo with us… Mom and Dad with me between them… all of us grinning at the camera…._

_"Who is the boy in the photo?"_

"Daniel, our son. This was taken when he came to live with us."

_"You raised a son while spying?"_

"Yes. Daniel figured out what we were not long after we adopted him. He has a brilliant mind and is very adept with his hands. I taught him to forge documents and his father taught him photography. He was a part of our team, so to speak, while being the best in his classes at school."

"_Where is he now?"_

"I don't know. Daniel wasn't home when I was arrested and the FBI never found him—neither did our people. He had graduated from high school a few days before and was preparing to travel to Moscow to attend Phystech, but he never arrived there. Do you know what I think he did?"

_"No. What do you think he did?"_

"I think Daniel made a new life for himself. I think he is a very successful man, happy and healthy with children and maybe grandchildren who are just as intelligent and handsome and good as he was. His father and I thought of him every day and we both agreed on this."

_"You can't be certain."_

"Yes, I can. Daniel lives in my heart and I am so very proud of him."

The interview ended there, but a note at its end said that Mrs. Sutterfield had died in her sleep two weeks later.

_Mom received even less of a obituary than Dad did… it didn't matter… I knew what I owed them… and I was grateful to have something of them—even if I did immediately cancel all my searches and delete all traces of Mom's interview… one can never be too careful…._

Harold looked over his shoulder, making sure Nathan was still in the lavatory, before raising his glass in salute to his parents.

_No children… no grandchildren… but I have everything else you wanted for me… and I have your love and your approval… and the knowledge that you both were together and enjoyed your lives… that is enough…._


End file.
